White Room
by bjxmas
Summary: 3.16 NRFTW tag. Dean’s ordeal in Hell, then his recovery. Hell was a white room awaiting its paint job. Every horror imaginable visiting him until he escaped to another white room. He wasn’t the man he used to be. Would he ever be that man again? Hell AU.
1. Hell is a State of Mind

Angst with hope. Not a death fic.

_This is based on events thru __No Rest for the Wicked__, but I guess you could call it an AU acid trip because Kripke's version of Hell will probably be much different than mine. A wink and a nod to the brilliant mind of Rod Serling and the Twilight Zone. Great inspiration and high aspirations on my part. _

_Dean is in Hell so there will be disturbing images and thoughts, but nothing truly graphic or explicit unless your mind wants to go there. This will be as bad as you and Dean imagine it to be. My philosophy is the mind is perfectly capable of filling in the blanks, probably more disturbingly than I could ever write._

_If you are following __What Evil Lurks in the Heart of Man__, don't fear that I am neglecting that story. I have several chapters of that one in the hopper and I am constantly working on it. This just gives me a little break from that angst to deal with this angst… I __really__ need to write a comedy again! _

_I don't beg for reviews… but they certainly do fuel the creative process and make me want to devote even longer hours to writing these stories… Hint, hint! And I love hearing what works and what might be improved upon._

White Room

Chapter One – Hell is a State of Mind

There was torture and taunts; hell, let's not forget this _was_ Hell, but the worst was when they left him alone. Time didn't exist here, but at least when they were having a session there was someone or some_thing _always present in the room.

It was when he was left alone that he felt himself slipping away. He'd press his fingernails into the palms of his hands just to feel something, _anything._ His mind would try to remember but there were only dark shadows, a stark contrast to the white room that was now his prison.

He'd get frustrated that he couldn't make out the shapes anymore, couldn't remember the names, but he could still experience the feelings. He knew that someone was looking for him; he could feel it in his bones. He just didn't know who or why or whether they'd ever find him.

He hoped they would and that just made it harder to be lost. A part of him wanted to disappear, just slip away and not care. But another part of him, the main part, knew he was supposed to hang on… for some reason he could no longer process.

He didn't know why or what good would come from it, but a small voice in his head told him to hang on, so he did.

Someone was coming.

--

TBC

_This one came to me in the hazy moments of the early morning just before the brain totally engages. When I became fully aware I bolted out of bed and wrote it down. It was originally going to be a One Shot because quite frankly I am overloaded with other stories that want to be written, but many have requested I continue this story into a chapter fic. _

_Since Kripke saw fit to send Dean to Hell and I have the summer to mourn the loss of our hero maybe this will help me deal, imagining how Dean will eventually get out of Hell. Oh, did I just give away a major plot point? Sorry… but while I may be good at writing dark (subject to individual opinion); I always try to see that light at the end of the tunnel. Winchesters always persevere in my stories… eventually. Thanks for reading and as always, reviews are welcome. Thanks, B.J._


	2. And So It Begins

Chapter Two – And So It Begins

Sometimes the quiet felt like a tomb enveloping him. It was like being buried alive, or dead, or _whatever_ he was… with only the panic of his frantic heart piercing the stillness, welcoming him back from the brink of madness.

Then offering it up again if he strayed too closely to the edge.

He was safe in his room… _his_ white room.

It was clean, sterile, antiseptic…

Empty. White.

So very, very white… Free of any colors, void of any personality.

A perfect expression of what was left of him.

Nothing.

No distractions to divert his mind from his circumstance.

Nothing to focus on.

He took what comfort he could from what he knew. His room. The only place where he belonged. His.. white.. room..

It was all he remembered, so he forgot everything else.

He laid there on crisp, starched sheets, rough like burlap, and stared at the ceiling. Arms and legs spread-eagle and shackled to the four posts of the bed.

His mind empty. No longer any thoughts pressing against his consciousness cluttering up the wide-open space.

No fear.

No hope.

Nothing.

He would be bored, if he remembered what that meant.

Hours, days, months passed… time meant nothing here. Each moment spent like the last and the next.

Until they came.

They smiled as they approached and his body tensed.

Shards of agony greeted him with every fresh contact. Their breath burning black as it swept across his straining muscles in a searing flash; their fingerprints acid where they imprinted his flesh.

Sizzling.

Can't say they didn't enjoy their job.

But then you tend to enjoy what you're good at… and they were very, very good at what they did.

Color filled the room then. Overflowing. Splashed against the walls in fanciful patterns. Wild, bold stripes of red.

Dripping from the ceiling in globs of guts and muscle saturated in blood.

Sound again resonating within the four walls. Penetrating every fiber of his being and bouncing against his bones. Bellowing out from within.

Screams of panic and pain, pleads for Sammy. Feral howls crying out again and again, ripped from the depths of his soul.

SAMMY! SAMMY! SAMMY!

The lone word torn gutturally from his throat, over and over and over.

A mantra, a broken record, a desperate plea.

Cries of anguish filled up the nothingness until his parched, hoarse throat fell silent. His lips still contorting, spread wide with his tongue flailing against the top of his mouth, breathlessly gasping but no sound was able to escape… wiped clean from overuse.

Tears streamed down his face until all moisture was removed, nothing left to wring from his tormented shell. His eyes desperately begging for deliverance before his body burst wide open from the intense pressures, exploding out to fill the room.

His screams again piercing the emptiness of his mind, filling it to capacity with horrors unimaginable.

The cycle continuing for all eternity. But eternity is just a word; time paid no mind in this hellhole.

His mind was foggy, buried deep within a muddled mass of nothing. Veiled curtains blocking his vision, heavy and immovable, and he was cut off from any real thoughts. Distant murmurs promised answers if he could only make his way back through the maze to find the questions. Twisting and turning unto himself he always ended up back at the beginning and he tired of the search.

Time again stilled and then they were gone. The pieces of his body laying about the room.

His mind even more fractured and torn.

Fear gripped him. His only companion.

Terror and panic. His only response.

His body trembled and convulsed as thoughts crowded in again competing against the pain of his injuries.

Feelings reverberated through him, awakened by the path of his pain. Each crackle in the synopsis of his brain reconnecting all the emotions of the present to what he'd lost. Echoing throughout his being, calling forth all the images from before.

Foretelling what was to come for all time. Where he'd been and where he was going.

The journey long until he again stumbled upon the white room.

Wiped clean. Fresh and sterile.

He crawled to his bed and laid down exhausted.

Racked with a desperate hope for salvation he sobbed as his mind tried to grasp hold of the concept. Frantic to remember what these feelings were, what they meant, why it hurt so.

He wondered where tears came from and what they meant beyond moisture that wet his cheeks.

The questions and the search for answers bringing more intense pain than any torture could impose.

One, lone thought pressed tight in his grip.

Constantly threatening to flitter away.

Hold on…

He is coming.

TBC


	3. Distant Dreams of Forgotten Times

Chapter Three – Distant Dreams of Forgotten Times

It was an endless cycle of white-hot pain followed by the white room where sound and all life were squeezed from him.

Alone… an eternity spent alone.

So lonely he'd welcome the thing that came on occasion to keep him company.

Bringing with it the screams of his agony and then releasing the color to paint the walls.

At least the silence was held at bay for a short time… or long.., still so hard to tell…

_Time_, so elusive. Fleeting and yet forever.

When he thought his mind might forever break, never to again be pieced back together, she came.

His eyes were closed as if in sleep, but sleep never came… _not here_.

A soft, gentle caress glided across his cheek and he sighed with relief. He leaned into the touch and it deepened, reaching within him to soothe his soul, a breathless whisper circling 'round his thoughts.

"_Hold on, baby… I'm here. Shhhh, it's alright. I'm with you."_

He settled back against the scratchy sheets, the hard surface of the bed unrelenting, but he felt himself slipping into sleep. Billowy clouds cushioned his body as he rested fully for the first time in…

His mind finally free. His body whole and no longer aching, just being, existing in a peaceful place locked deep within his mind.

It was almost like being in heaven, if there was such a thing as heaven.

He slept… and then he dreamed.

Cool water… clear blue and tranquil. Splashing against his face and bare chest, cooling him down from the brilliant sun glistening from above amongst the clouds.

Laughter… a boy's voice, high-pitched with glee.

"Dean, c'mon!"

A boy no more than eight was running along the shore of a vast ocean. His bare feet skipping along kicking up sand while his hands waved through the air in wild, bold patterns like an eccentric, long-haired orchestral conductor as the music built in a crescendo to the big finale of the last act.

There was more laughter, of a lower timbre, and he felt it roll from deep within his own chest and it startled him.

He heard himself at the opposite end of the spectrum from his screams and he felt real happiness… true contentment. He felt his lips stretch up into a silly grin. Tears of joy pricked his eyes as warm rays heated his skin.

"Dean, you comin', or what?"

He answered and he felt the joy of the moment rise up and fill him with true bliss. Then his feet started to move and he was running along the shoreline, gaining on the younger boy until he tackled him and they both fell into the froth and cool waters and he was buoyed by the waves and carried out on the current.

Laughter overflowed and they swallowed down gulps of salty water and the laughter expelled it out in a burbling rush of spit and foam. The younger boy started to float away and he reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him back to him and holding on tight as they rolled on the crest of a wave.

"Sammy… "

His eyes flew open and real tears rolled down his cheeks.

_Sammy… _

_Sammy?_

He tried to hold on to the image but the thought floated away.

He struggled to pull his hand down to his face to wipe away the tears building there but the chafing of the metal restraint reminded him of his circumstance.

He stared up at the white ceiling as the burlap sheets rubbed rough against his back and the tears continued to fall.

His mouth tried to make the sound, his lips curling into the shape his mind remembered while his tongue tried to force out the air to realize it. In frustration his lips trembled as no sound escaped.

Angry, his head rose up only to slam back down against the rock that was his pillow.

Alone, he waited for them to come and release him from this hell.

TBC


	4. Escape is Only a Figment of Your Mind

Chapter Four – Escape is Only a Figment of Your Mind

"What're _you_ doin' here?"

He ignored the voice and continued to feel his way along the wall, his bare feet stumbling along amid the shards of glass and bone. His feet cut and bleeding, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

He considered that a good thing. Better than bread crumbs, an easy way to find his way back.

Back to his room. His white room.

He never strayed far. Just enough to look around before something would startle him and send him careening back to the safety of the room.

Fearful of being discovered being bad. Terrified they would punish him even more for disobeying.

Silently he moved along, his hands gripping the wall, stealthily and cautious. His eyes looking down to the floor, not wanting to see the agony surrounding him.

The pictures already bold enough in his mind; the sounds that assaulted his ears further telling the story.

Their story… _his story._

"Dean… ain't it?"

That voice again. So annoying.

_Go away… leave me alone… _

_No… wait… _

_Who? _

_Who are you? _

_Do you know me?_

_Do I know you?_

_No, don't answer… go away._

His mind carried on a conversation with himself. But that was all there was.

Himself.

No one else.

All alone.

Forever alone.

This was only in his mind… he was sure of that.

His heart was beating frantically. Part of him wanting some contact, any contact other than the pain.

His mind so fearful of stepping too closely to that line. Treading dangerously close now.

He raised his eyes up enough to look. _Just one quick look._ Preparing to close them again as soon as the demon face appeared. So ugly… so grotesque and cruel.

_Human?_

Not entirely sure, but a piece of him somewhere thought so and since he had no other thought to compete against it, he decided to go with it.

His mouth opened to speak, but no words came. Just guttural whimpers, broken and hoarse.

Straining.

Forgetting how to speak.

"Wwwwhhhhaaaaaaattttt?" His tongue was thick and swollen, flapping in his mouth, scraping against his teeth. Trying with everything he possessed to get the word out.

The heat and light of the fires burned his eyes, so unaccustomed to being open. He squinted into the brightness and the man smiled through the shadows.

"The goofer dust didn't help you? I'm sorry… But you don't belong here."

He couldn't disagree with that, although he had no clue what goofer dust was.

"You saved Evan Hudson. You done good, kid. Why didn't you save yourself?"

_Evan who? _His mind searched and came away blank… empty.

"Why you here, boy? Where's that brother of yours?"

_Brother?_

His eyes narrowed and he studied the man. Old, grizzled, black… like where they touched him, sizzling and burning his own skin black. He wondered if it hurt… being black like that all over. _It must hurt._

Then the man smiled. Tender and sincere. Kind. Strange that in this place the man didn't look to be in constant pain like all the others, except within his eyes. He carried a sadness in those eyes. Like he'd failed to realize his dream.

_Dream? _

_Sammy?_

_Sammy… the boy? The little boy?_

_Where is he?_

_Where'd he go?_

_Why'd he leave me here?_

_Why'd he leave me all alone?_

The man patted his arm and smiled, reassuring. This touch didn't burn, instead it felt good. A true connection for once. Real concern and compassion were in those eyes… but also more sadness… not for himself, _for me_. _Why?_

"You best git on back. They'll be a' comin'."

His heart seized and his eyes misted and he wanted to disappear into the dream again. Release the pain and go far, far away. He staggered back against the wall and closed his eyes as tightly as he could, hoping for the touch. _Praying._

Her touch. Soft against his cheek. Offering to take him back to the boy.

"Son… you best hurry."

He froze against the wall, his arms extended straight out at his shoulders, palms pressed flat against the peeling paint, fingers splayed wide and digging in at the tips like he was trying to grab hold of the wall.

Terror kept him plastered there, stuck like a post in cement. Willing himself to disappear.

A finger lifted up his chin. His lips trembled and a soft gasp finally made its way out into the smoky air. Scared, he barely opened his eyes, looking up from beneath long lashes into the man's twinkling eyes, _so kind._

The voice was mellow, soothing. "I know, son. Hold on… he'll be along."

Slowly he closed his eyes to the terror and peeled himself from the wall. With downcast eyes he followed the trail of blood back to where he belonged.

Back to his white room.

To wait… for them.

It was time.

They were coming.

TBC


	5. Eye of the Storm

Chapter Five – Eye of the Storm

"I'm going to start with the fingertips. Not the entire fingertips… just the prints. Those'll peel right off.., just like peeling a grape."

These fingers didn't burn when they touched; instead they were cold against his trembling flesh. A shiver emanated out from the touch, digging in and snaking through his insides, twisting and turning until every inch of him was throbbing in terror.

"Then we'll take the fingers… joint.. by.. joint.."

He closed his eyes to the face. So different from the others but just as grotesque, a patchwork quilt of leather scraps stitched together with silken thread. One eye fogged over and grey, the other piercing and probing. Smiling a deformed, hideous half-smile as he ran his corpse hands up and down his body laid out on the slab _waiting. _Waiting for whatever this freak had planned.

"No anesthesia, but then I hear you like the pain. I want to hear you scream." This thing ran his fingers down the side of his face and he struggled to break free from the chill, turning away from him and cringing, tears again starting to form. "No one hears my screams now. _You _saw to that."

_God, who are you?_

_I don't know you. I don't._

_I didn't do anything to you._

_Please, just leave me alone._

_Please…_

"You could have had immortality, but you had qualms... _Reservations…_ Your brother was agreeable, but not you. Why wouldn't you listen? Is this better?"

_Brother?_

_No… brother wouldn't do that._

_Would he?_

_Do what?_

_What did he do?_

"Is _this_ immortality better? To be _here_ for all time? An eternity… _in Hell?_ Could have had an eternity on earth."

_I don't want an eternity anywhere._

_Too long… _

_Already too long._

_I just want to go home._

_Please… take me home._

_Wherever that is…_

_Anywhere but here._

_Please…_

_Anywhere else._

"THIS. This is your home now... Where you belong."

Hands everywhere, touching, feeling, examining his body, rubbing up and down, probing him, penetrating his soul. He tensed at the invasion, willing the hands to leave. Too intimate, too personal. Preferring the pain to any contact from this creature. The rancid stench of evil soiling him from a mere touch.

"Now, where were we? Wrists… I'm going to slice your wrists down to the bone and watch you bleed out."

_Yes, blood._

_Always the blood._

_Bring it._

_Let the cycle begin…_

_Get it over with._

_Then leave._

_Bring the pain and then just leave…_

_Like always._

_Please…_

This monstrosity was moving deliberately around him, humming softly, thoroughly enjoying his operations.

Cutting.

Slicing.

"I'm afraid a lot has worn out since we last met. You took my heart… your brother took my eye. Good thing I have you." Cold fingers grabbed hold of his head, pulling his eyelids up and staring down into his eyes. "Don't move."

When he was done, when every piece on the slab before him was saturated in blood he wiped his hands on his apron and casually collected his scalpels and the melon baller.

"How does it feel to be undead? To have an infinite amount of time? I'll be back, you must know that. These parts won't last forever… Now that you're here I know precisely where to come to restock. You should have listened to your brother… "

This thing threaded rough, calloused fingers through his hair, stroking him like an animal, trapped and helpless. He again closed his mind to the assault, denying the promises to come.

"You wouldn't be here if not for him."

_No… not true._

_Not Sammy's fault._

_Not._

_No… I don't believe you._

_Sammy?_

_SAMMY!_

_Where are you?_

_Why don't you come?_

_You promised…_

_She promised._

_I can't hold on much longer._

_Please…_

_Come._

_Please._

"_Shhh, baby… I'm here. It's alright. I'm with you."_

He couldn't see through the blood in his eyes… _eye_. He didn't panic. It wasn't about his body, this shell that held all his terrors. His body was only flesh and blood, not who he was. It would piece itself back together again like it always did.

Good as new.

Firm and fit just like before with only the memories of how the silver cut and the fire burned. Horrors upon horrors piled high in his mind until the weight threatened to undo him.

Tears mixing with the blood.

His body would be perfect again. Always was, after…

It was his mind that no longer knew how to react, how to recover and keep going.

Wanting it to stop.

Needing it to be over.

To simply end… bloody and raw and rough.

However…

It didn't matter anymore _how…_

Just so it ended and he didn't have to keep playing their games.

Their sick, twisted games.

He needed to get away before he lost himself completely.

He couldn't remember why.

He couldn't remember where.

All he could remember was a fleeting face… the boy. A broad smile and a high-pitched laugh.

Eyes that looked upon him with confidence and trust… _in_ _him_.

Eyes that followed his every move.

The love he felt in those eyes kept him going.

Kept him from losing himself totally to the pain.

As long as he could hold on to the boy, he could do this one more second. Then maybe a minute and on to possibly an hour, followed by a day. Weeks and months would soon pass as time held no meaning.

An endless cycle, no beginning and no end.

Time… it was all he had.

The boy… he was all he needed.

_Please, take me to the boy. _

_Please…_

_I need to see him…_

"_Close your eyes… that's it. See him?"_

_No._

_Where?_

_He's not there… not anywhere._

_Please…_

_I need him._

_Please._

Her fingers again caressed his cheek, soft and warm; her lips hovering against his forehead, her sweet breath ghosting across his skin fighting the chill the creature had placed there. A faint ember rekindled in the depths of his despair. Her hands holding him gently between her palms as she leaned down and kissed him, tenderly whispering, _"Just believe, baby… and he will come. Believe_."

He relaxed, enveloped by her luminous beauty and calming voice. Her words like a soothing melody lulling him to sleep. Wisping about him and offering hope.

"Dean… there you are. Where were you, bro?"

His lips turned up in a contented smile. The tension in his limbs released and he was floating on a white cloud, far above the pain.

TBC


	6. Have a Little Faith

Chapter Six – Have a Little Faith

"I'm going to pray for you."

"I don't believe in God."

"I know."

"So why would you pray for me?"

"Because _I believe_… and because you prayed for me. That in itself was a miracle."

"A miracle? Did it do any good? Are you alive?"

"That's not what it's about."

"Then what?"

"Faith."

"Faith?"

"You can't just believe when the miracles happen, if you're going to have faith you have to believe when they don't."

"Why? I don't believe… I can't, not after this. Not after what they've done."

"But you must, Dean. You _need_ to believe. It's all you have."

"Believe in what?"

"In him."

"Who?"

"You know who. He _is _coming."

"Who is he?"

"Shhh, sleep… "

The girl of his dreams was sweet and the images brought serenity, a peaceful calm that settled his heart allowing him to rest.

He shifted on the bed, trying to get comfortable. There was no position that was comfortable for his body. His only hope was to find a peace buried deep in his mind.

She came to help him. He could sense that. Offering up a sanctuary, a secret place where _they_ weren't allowed. Safer than his room, cleaner than the white.

His refuge.

From pain and torture… from the constant agony of Hell.

From _them_.

She touched his face and he leaned into the softness of her fingers, a slight gasp escaping his lips. Smooth and gentle, calming, just like the other, pulling his thoughts away from the pain and toward the pleasure he'd long forgotten.

He offered a hesitant smile, unsure with longing. His lips quivering as they tried to hold the shape; his eyes pleading, silent but hopeful.

So hopeful…

"Just sleep… _dream_."

Her voice as soft and warm as her hand resting against his cheek, chasing away all the pain.

Banishing it until later…

Much later.

It was snowing. Soft wisps of frozen flakes floating down from the sky. Swirling about him on the heels of the wind. White… mounds and mounds of white. Fluffy like marshmallows stacked around a campfire. All gooey and soft, buffering him from the intense heat.

Peaceful.

Pleasant.

Cold, crisp air broke across his face turning his nose red. He briskly rubbed his hands together to warm them. His mittens given over to the boy. His knit cap pulled down over shaggy brown hair, resting at the boy's brow.

"Dean, I look like a mummy!"

"Can't have you catching a cold now."

"What about you?"

"I'm fine, Sammy. Don't worry."

"But Dean?"

"No worries, Sammy. I'm fine."

The boy smiled in response before releasing a soft gasp as he fell back into a snowbank. His arms and legs spread-eagle and he determinedly moved them up and down imprinting the snow angel onto the landscape.

"Dean, I'm an angel."

Ecstasy overflowed, warming him up on the inside simply from the love he felt for this child. His lips turned up in a contented grin as he gazed upon the boy.

An angel… _my angel_.

"_Angels are watching over you, love. You're not alone… You'll never be alone. Hold on."_

His eyes blinked back the tears that wetted his lashes, making them heavy and drawing down his lids. He struggled to open his eyes again, through the fear of what he might see and he strained to spot her in the distance. He caught a mere glimpse of a white dress billowing out before it disappeared into the red around a corner.

He saw everything in that instant. Fire, pain, blood, terror. Horrors unimaginable, except he knew them, intimately felt them time after time. He clamped his eyes shut like a steel fire door.

He didn't want to see. Not anymore… not ever again.

_Sammy? _

_Sammy, you still here?_

Silence greeted him. The boy gone.

Alone.

All alone, like always.

His heart plummeted and he stilled on the hard, white bed in his cold, white prison.

Time left him there. Waiting for the terror to begin anew.

Desperately hoping his angels would protect him. Shield him from the pain.

Shelter him from the coming storm.

He tried to move his arms and legs. Tried to make an angel like the boy had.

Shackles bound his body; in defiance his mind soared.

He felt a snowflake land on his cheek. His tongue reached out to taste it, to hold on to it, but it disappeared, melting from the intense heat and running down beneath his chin.

The temperature rapidly rising.

He waited as tears again pooled in his eyes. His body trembling as thousands of tiny pin pricks assaulted his flesh.

They were coming.

TBC

_Thank you to everyone who is reading my story. An extra special thanks to those that choose to review. Any and all comments are greatly appreciated. Take care, B.J._


	7. Father, Where Art Thou?

Chapter Seven – Father, Where Art Thou?

"Faith… Dean, you have to have faith."

_It's so hard…_

_Especially here._

_But I'll try… _

_I'll try._

--

"Dean, I _love_ you."

The rhythm of his heart shifted, wildly racing within his chest, beating steady and strong and it felt so strange; so different from how it usually felt when it raced, good instead of bad. She smiled at him and he smiled back. He couldn't contain this odd feeling of joy welling up inside him.

Soaring.

Flying high above all the pain.

"C'mon… we only have an hour."

_Time… what does that mean?_

Lush green grass tickled his bare feet. Cool and real, staining his feet with mossy streaks of green. He crinkled his toes, digging into the cool depths. Rolling his feet from heel to toe, sinking into the soft earth beneath his soles, dew-laced blades slipping between his toes.

Wind. Blowing soft and steady.

The breeze whispering through the trees, gentle and at ease.

_Come, sit down… enjoy the day._

A picnic laid out before him.

Waiting just for him.

An offering.

Gingham and cut flowers…

Wicker basket, packed with a feast to fill up the emptiness that echoed from the hollow of his gut.

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen beckoning him, silky dark hair, perfect alabaster skin, tender eyes that truly cared.

_Cared for me… _

_Loved me. _

A smile full of moonbeams shining bright, a beacon calling him home.

Offering him a sanctuary of love and safety. _It's everything you ever wanted._

Wine.

Smooth and mellow.

She poured out two goblets and handed one to him, the purple liquid sloshing against the sides like the sea in the throes of a storm.

Their fingers brushing as he retrieved the offering.

He remembered that touch. It coursed through his veins, making his body come alive, tingling and throbbing like a river surging forth toward the open ocean.

_Contentment…_

_Freedom._

_Bliss…_

A _good_ feeling to replace the bad.

_So many bad…_

_Hold on to the good._

He placed the glass of wine at his lips, gently swirling the liquid, pausing to breathe in the rich bouquet and anticipate the promised full taste.

Savoring the moment.

_So few good moments._

_Hold on… hold on._

He tipped the glass, allowing the wine to slowly fill his mouth, relishing the sweet flavor as it caressed his palate before swallowing it down. The liquid cool, soothing his parched throat. His eyes blissfully closing as he reflected on all the sensations, within and out.

Her fingers gently prodded his mouth back open and when he complied she placed a single cracker on his tongue, her touch brushing soft against his lips before it faded away. The salty cracker melting within the warmth and he filled with renewed vigor, enough strength to face what he knew was inevitable…

But that would come later…

_Much later._

His eyes peacefully closed and his lips turned up in a contented smile as she leaned in and kissed him.

Warm and gentle, sweet and smooth, the taste of her lips mingling with the aftertaste of the wine in the perfect sensory moment. Her love wrapping around him like a cocoon of silk, making him feel warm and safe and loved, protected from the others, insulated from the pain.

"Dean… "

He opened his eyes but she had vanished.

The moment gone…

Flittering away.

In a panic he looked to his empty hand, no goblet of wine. Instead blood stained his fingertips, dripping down the sides of his body, saturating the white sheets and turning the cloth red.

Laughter… cold and cruel. Menacing.

Cutting.

Slicing.

Prying him wide open.

Pain…

So much pain.

White hot and then he blacked out.

Only that wasn't allowed.

Not here…

Not now.

No relief… _ever._

He was pulled up and off the bed, meat hooks piercing his shoulder and side, suspended within a maze of heavy chains to writhe in agony as blood ran like a river down his chest. His heart pumping it out in spurts of scarlet.

Rivers of red running deep.

Stretched taut from the chains, his arms reaching out to the heavens.

Like the wind howling through the trees, his voice cried out, pleading for deliverance.

For mercy…

None given.

The animals beneath him nipped at his feet, growling up at him with snarling teeth.

Hellhounds… awaiting their supper.

A calming voice broke through the anguish, finally answering his desperate pleas for salvation.

Soothing, but so distant.

Worlds apart.

_Drink, this is my blood._

_Eat, this is my body._

Gaping holes appeared in his wrists and ankles, piercing him and pulling him apart from the inside.

Ripping the pain from him alongside the blood.

_Yea though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death._

_Fear not…_

_For I am with you._

Tears pooled in his shattered eyes.

Struggling to hold on.

_There will be blood. _

There _must_ be blood.

There was _always_ blood.

_Father?_

_Please… Father?_

No further response beyond the steady sound of blood dripping. Oozing from his open wounds and pooling beneath him in a puddle of red.

_Please, Father… please… _

_Please. _

Silence his answer. He closed his eyes to the rejection, squeezing them as tight as they would go. Trying to move inward, attempting to leave all this behind.

_Dad? Please… _

_Please…_

_Don't you let it kill me._

He again felt the hard surface of the bed. A rock beneath him. The rough sheets draped around him like a shroud.

The fabric covered his face and he welcomed the chance to hide, to disappear.

Maybe if they couldn't see him they wouldn't find him.

Maybe the nightmare would end… at least for now.

_Please let them leave._

_Find some other poor unfortunate to torture._

He shook as tears racked his body, shame overwhelming him.

Straining to lift his weary arms he pulled the sheet from his face. Looking about for _them_.

_I'm sorry… _

_I didn't mean it._

_Don't go…_

He could never let another soul suffer for his sins. He bit into his bottom lip to still the tremors. His eyes opened and he pleaded to the air surrounding him.

_I'm ready… _

_I'm ready now. _

_Have at it._

His stomach knotted in on itself as he waited for them to begin anew, tears streaming down his face. His body already twitching from the slight breeze that wisped across his torso causing him to tense as he waited for more touches.

Touches that burned.

Listening and waiting.

"Daddy?"

A voice, so young… not unlike the boy's voice, but different. Small, not yet fully formed.

_Not Sammy…_

_Then who?_

"That moon bounce is epic. Totally awesome, dude!"

A child's hand touched his shoulder but no pain swept over him.

Gently shaking, hesitant, yet persistent.

"You awake?"

_Her_ eyes stared down at him. He smiled and the boy smiled in turn.

He knew this boy… could see her in his smile.

He was so tired of being alone.

He just wanted someone to belong to… needed someone to care… someone to remember him.

Then maybe he could remember himself.

_I thought you'd never come. _

_I don't want to be alone… _

_I'm so tired of being alone. _

_Please, don't leave me…_

_Never leave me._

He allowed himself one moment of bliss before he adamantly shook his head 'no'.

He gasped out in pain as tears erupted back up to the surface and he shuddered from the intense thoughts pushing through his brain, snaking their way inside his consciousness.

His mind suddenly clear, finally lucid.

His heart seized and he knew what he had to do, what was expected.

What was _right._

_You shouldn't be here…_

_Ben… _

This boy's name was Ben.

Somehow he knew that.

He smiled at the distant memory already starting to slip away.

He struggled to hold on for a moment more… however long that might be.

_Ben.., you don't belong here._

_I shouldn't have brought you._

_I'm sorry…_

_Please…_

_Go home._

_Be safe. _

_Please…_

_I'm sorry._

_This isn't your life._

TBC

_Thanks for reading my story. Special thanks to everyone who chooses to review; all comments are always appreciated. Take care, B.J._


	8. Silver Refined and Purified

Chapter Eight – Silver Refined and Purified

He's alone for a long time… or he thinks it's a long time. He can't tell. It seems like a long time, but then again… everything seems to take forever. _Last forever._

Everything except the dreams. Those are so fleeting, over in the blink of an eye.

Just as he settles in, forgetting the pain, they fall away and he's left with only agony.

Always the agony.

Hell.

Built on pain and suffering.

Hell.

Alone and lost.

Hell.

It's hell… nothing more, nothing less.

And that's enough.

More than he can stand to remember.

He closes his eyes to the sights. Wills his ears to bury the sounds.

Hopes his body will relinquish the touches.

Force everything into the black hole that consumes his insides.

It never works.

They always find him.

Taunting… playing their sick, twisted games.

Tearing him apart piece by piece.

Shredding his body.

Warping his mind.

Ravaging his soul.

When they are through with their session, their endless cycle of pain and misery, he knows time will allow him to heal again. Like it always does. Quietly putting his body back together so it is ready to go again.

At their disposal.

Awaiting their whims.

Anticipating their hands of fire and blades of tempered steel.

He wills his body and mind to harden and strengthen as the steel has in response to the fires, resilient and unbreakable.

_He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver._

The voice echoes in his head, a comfort even though he doesn't understand.

Sometimes he feels as if someone is standing beside him, just out of sight, watching over him and protecting him.

He knows that's crazy… _insane_.

Delusional.

No one's there…

No one cares.

Not here.

_Especially _not here.

A story comes to mind, from where he can't say…

Or _why…_

It simply is.

Floating about his consciousness.

A fragment locked inside his mind only serving to confuse him further.

Crystal clear in his thoughts…

Something to ponder in the still.

_Anything _to keep his mind occupied...

Away from thoughts of _them_.

To keep him from falling totally into the darkest pit of human despair.

His mind wraps around it with a death grip allowing him to hold on for one more moment, however long that might be.

_The silversmith held a piece of silver in the middle of the fire where the flames were the hottest in order to burn away all the impurities. The Smithy sat intently watching the silver the entire time, standing by ready to pull it from the fire lest it be left alone too long and destroyed by the flames. When asked how he knew when the silver was fully refined and to release it from the fiery depths he replied when he could see the image within the metal._

_What image? They inquired._

_The image of God… he answered._

He chuckled, his lips quivering as they parted and the sound escaped.

_God? Yeah, right!_

_That's a good one!_

He knew better…

It was the one thing he did know.

Especially now… especially here…

After everything…

After _this…_

In all the confusion, amid all the pain, one thing was sure…

Crystal clear amid the haze.

God doesn't exist…

At least not here.

You'd have to be insane to think differently.

_You must be crazy…_

_Angels aren't watching over you… _

_No one is._

_Not here, not now… _

_All the proof you need…_

_There, within their touch._

_Their fiery touch._

_Indisputable… _

He finally saw the truth, the unforgiving, unmitigated truth…

God and angels were simply figments, _delusions_… fantasies created to allow man to hide from reality, to deny what he couldn't face.

The _real_ truth…

That evil exists…

And in the end will triumph.

Destined to rule the earth.

Running amuck and causing its ruin.

Conquering and destroying mankind.

Or worse…

Enslaving man.

_It's just a matter of time…_

_However long that is._

Satisfied in the knowledge, in finally accepting the truth, he lies on the hard, white bed, alone and broken. White walls waiting for their paint job.

His eyes closed tight, concentrating.

His ears desperate for even a temporary quiet to meditate and prepare, to steel his nerves for the coming session, but instead he is rocked with a bold laugh, a deep, maniacal laugh and it sounds so familiar.

Waves of fear sweep through his body.

Goosebumps rise up as a chill settles down into his bones. Not even the fires of Hell able to warm the ice-cold terror that grips him.

"Dean… "

_That voice…_

_I've heard it before…_

_Where? Who?_

"Dean… Where's the anti-Christ? Where's your brother? Where's Sammy?"

_Anti-Christ? _

_What the hell?_

_What do you mean?_

_That's crazy… _

_Sammy? _

_He's a boy… just a boy._

"He's the devil, Dean. Evil personified. He's the one who belongs here.., not you."

_No, he's a boy. _

_He's just a little boy._

"Face it, Dean. He's an animal that needs to be put down."

_What? No! _

_You stay away from him…_

_YOU HEAR ME?! _

_Who are you? Show yourself!_

And he does.

Huge, imposing black man, but no tender look to his eyes… no pain of lost dreams and broken promises, no last regrets… only hatred.

Confident in what he knows…

Determined in what he says.

Fierce and crazed…

_Deadly. _

His laughter deep like an endless well dropping down to the center of the earth. It roars like an earthquake across the caverns of Hell causing all the creatures to hunker down in terror.

His eyes bloodshot and cold. No tenderness, no compassion, only bloodlust.

And there is blood here.

More than enough blood.

There is _always_ blood and the man's lips quiver in anticipation.

Twitching in the presence of this formidable man, he tries to roll away from him. Tries to move as far as possible from this evil bastard that taunts him. But he can't, the steel bite of the shackles on his wrists and ankles bind him to the bed. Laying him out as a sacrificial lamb for this man… this creature that looks at him with an animal's hunger.

The fiery heat from the pit turns the metal into red-hot branding irons, burning his flesh until it falls away leaving whitened bone stripped of any color. The horror of his bleached bones laid bare _nothing_ compared to the look in this man's eyes, the silent promise waiting to devour him.

"Dean, I warned you about the psychics. I told you of the evil to come. But you wouldn't listen and now… look at you. _Now _do you believe?"

_Believe?_

_She told me to believe._

_All right, all right…_

_I'll believe. _

_Hold on… _

_Believe…_

_He is coming._

He closed his eyes tight, willing this man to leave.

Willing the boy to come.

Praying for silence.

_For peace…_

_For salvation._

The laughter cuts in, loud and cruel.., mocking him. He opens his eyes for just a second and he sees the razor-sharp teeth descending, nasty and threatening, the eyes blood red… _bloodthirsty _as the beast leans over his body laid out as a feast.

Then the hot breath ghosts against his neck and the teeth sink in, tearing tender flesh, sucking the blood, ripping his throat out.

His screams of terror are overpowered by the laughter as the man pulls off his feed spraying blood and flesh across his face in a splatter of gore.

His eyes close and he prays.

_Sam…_

_Sammy…_

_Please…_

TBC

_Thank you to everyone who is reading this story. Special thanks again to all that choose to review. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. Take care, B.J._


	9. The Mirror Has Two Faces

Chapter Nine – The Mirror Has Two Faces

"There you are."

He looked human, this boy. Young, sandy-brown hair, cocky grin… perfect, except for the eyes, intense eyes that held too much pain inside their luminous emerald depths. Beautiful eyes darkened by knowledge well beyond his age of maybe twelve.

A story was buried deep within those eyes.

The story of a child battered and bruised by the world...

Worn down by life itself and all his many burdens.

Still.., much too perfect for this place.

This place only held pain and sorrow and regret.

He didn't belong here. A boy such as this couldn't belong in Hell.

A boy like this deserved so much more.

"Who are you?"

The boy's lips curled up in a familiar smirk. "You don't know?"

"No. Should I?"

"_Should you?_ Good question… it depends. I s'pose you should, but it don't surprise me that you don't. You never did pay any attention to me."

The boy circled around him, cocky, too sure of himself. His swagger defying his years; his actions not the moves of a child.

"Are you a friend of Sammy's?"

"A friend? Guess you could say that… but I'm more. I'm his protector… if it wasn't for me, he'da fallen away a long time ago."

His voice reverently whispered, "Are you his angel?"

"Angel?" The boy laughed, his eyes showing interest, intently observing him. His lips curled in a lop-sided grin beneath pin-point dimples, like he found the situation they were in highly amusing. "You believe in angels now?" he scoffed with a raised brow.

"I don't know… I.. I _want_ to."

"Well, whatever floats your boat," he dismissively stated.

"So, you watch over Sammy?"

"Always have." The smirk now gone, pride and determination replacing it.

"He's lucky."

"Damn straight. Always has been. I saw to it."

"So you've known him a long time?"

He was again pacing around the bed, almost like he couldn't stand still. "All his life. Been there for most everything… "

"You? _You're _that important to Sammy?" he asked. His voice wrapped in wonder while a hint of jealousy flickered within his searching eyes; reflective eyes that had seen too much pain… in life… in Hell. Now only trying to comprehend and make sense of this boy standing before him.

The boy stopped and stared, his eyes taking on a darker cast, sadness and longing lurking behind the firm words. "There was a time when I was everything to him. Back in the day… " He casually quirked his head before he looked away breaking off his intent gaze.

"What happened?"

"He grew up. Didn't need me anymore." He shrugged his shoulders as if it didn't matter, but when he turned back his eyes revealed the truth. That it was_ everything. _"He just moved on… y'know, bigger and better… "

"Sorry, dude." He shifted on the hard bed, trying to keep the boy in sight. "So, you looking for him? 'Cause I'm looking for him… maybe we could find him together?"

"Nah, don't think so. He wanted normal… He don't want me around. Not anymore. Didn't even answer my phone calls after he left." He stopped pacing and his voice fell to a whisper as he glanced down to the floor and when his head gently rose he gazed through long, lush lashes, eyes veiled behind a curtain of hurt. "Even that one time I was hurt real bad and I didn't know if I'd make it. I just wanted to hear his voice, y'know? But he was busy or somethin'… Couldn't be bothered."

"No… I'm sure he would have answered if he could."

"Oh, really? _You're_ sure… " The boy grinned, his eyes shimmering with pure unabashed amusement, the grin the exact opposite of the tension the words held. The hurt hanging there unspoken; this boy already a master at hiding his feelings. "Good to know."

"So… you have a name?"

The smirk returned in all its glory as he breezed off a response, "Everybody has a name. You _really_ don't remember?"

"You seem familiar… something. I dunno. Everything's mashed up. I can't grab hold of things."

"How long you been here?"

"Long? A long time… I think. It _seems_ like a long time. Seems like forever since I've seen Sammy. I really need to see him."

"Yeah? Well, good luck with that. He ain't exactly looking for you, y'know."

"WHAT? He _is…_ I _know_ he is. She promised… said if I believed, he'd come. He _has_ to come."

"You shittin' me? You're actually depending on _him_ coming to save _your_ ass?" He shook his head, a resigned smile lingering before he huffed in disgust, "Since when has anyone _ever _come to save you? Since when have you ever mattered that much?"

"_What?_ Why are you saying that? Who are you?" He turned his face away from the boy, all he could do in his current predicament. His voice registering his panic and pain. "I don't want you here. Go away."

"Me? You want _me _to go away?"

The boy laughed. He may have just been a kid, but the punk bastard laughed!

He turned back to glare at the boy. "Who the hell are you? Go away, kid… NOW!"

The boy crossed his arms and fixed his stance in defiance. This kid wasn't going to back down, regardless. He stood soldier erect, staring, taunting with those expressive eyes that told so many conflicting stories before he incredulously repeated, "You want _me _to go away?"

"Yes… now!" Tears swelled even as he refused to acknowledge them, a sad fury rising up and threatening to take his hope away… _all he had left._

"You really are crazy, aren't you?"

"No… I'm _not_… _not crazy_… tired. I'm just so tired… Please…, _please_, just go." He struggled to get away from the boy, to turn away… _something_, so he didn't have to face the ugly lies. The shackles binding him to the bed, forcing him to face this boy and all his sordid falsehoods… forcing him to wonder if it _was_ true… that no one cared, no one was coming, that he truly was all alone… _forever._ "Just go… now!"

"Can't." He shook his head in the negative and continued to stare. "Simple as that."

"Why? Why not?"

"Come on, Dean… think… you _know_ me, somewhere in that freaky head of yours. Hell, you always were a bit of a slacker. Daddy's blunt little instrument. THINK! You moron… THINK!"

"I don't want to... I _need_ Sammy. I just need Sammy… JUST BRING ME SAMMY!" Desperation again filled his lungs, his need bellowing out from the emptiness. The stark, white walls closing in on him, the boy's words a heavy burden, suffocating him with thoughts and feelings he couldn't face.

"Hasn't he done enough? You gave up your whole life for him and how did he repay you? HUH? He _left _you."

"No… Sammy wouldn't do that."

The boy became increasingly belligerent, in his face, yelling and prodding, pushing and shoving with more hurtful words.

"God, you _are_ pathetic. He _left_ you." The kid chuckled, his head moving slowly back and forth in awe at the sight before him. "He left you HERE! And still you grovel for any scrap of attention from him? HE'S THE REASON YOU'RE HERE! He freakin' got himself killed so you had to go and offer up your soul for him. Do the whole martyr bit _again._ God, it gets old! YOU'RE IN HELL BECAUSE OF HIM."

"No… you're lying… go away. Not listening… I'm.. not.. listening." He rolled his head back and forth in denial, his eyes squeezed tight but his ears heard everything; nothing could stop the taunts, the lies, and the pain.

"TOUGH, tough guy! They're coming to pull the flesh from your bones because of _Sammy._ He's not your salvation; he's your curse, dammit! Your whole life's been devoted to the devil's spawn… and _you're_ the one in Hell… you're the one to always pay the price, aren't ya?"

His eyes flew open and he snarled in response, a base reflex culled from somewhere in his past, "It's my job."

"_What?_ I didn't hear you… you sayin' somethin'?"

"I said, IT'S MY JOB. Protect Sammy. Keep the family together. Hunt evil. The _family_ _business._" Anger rose up within him, fury erupting. He kept repeating his mantra, his one salvation in a life filled with pain. A purpose, a reason to keep going, a mission. "It's my job… "

"A job, huh?"

"Protect Sammy. Do the job." His voice fading; so tired, exhaustion slowly winning out as the battle wore on and on, no end in sight.

"How about a _life?_ Did ya ever think about that? Didn't you deserve a life, Dean? Sammy got a life… at college… with Jessica. Didn't you want that too? Didn't you ever want _something? Anything?"_

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Tears ran unchecked down his cheeks, this torment worse than the horrors of the fire and steel, worse than drowning in blood amid the endless torture.

"What? The truth hurt? I thought you were used to pain? Aren't you used to sacrifice, Dean? Used to surrendering _everything_ for your family?" The boy leaned over the bed, his face inches away, angry and demanding. "WHAT ABOUT ME?"

"_You?_ Who the hell are you?"

"God, you _are_ dense. You freakin' stupid, pathetic excuse for a man… YOU DESERVE HELL!" He threw up his hands and walked away. He didn't go far before he stopped and slowly turned back, clear green eyes accusing, the pain palpable as a hushed voice whispered, "You don't deserve any better."

Something snapped, some fragile grip on reality or fantasy or whatever it was he'd held onto for all his time here in Hell. This place and these creatures unable to break him with their torture, their endless torment and rivers of blood; the bitter words of a child finally accomplishing the dirty deed, breaking him wide open and revealing his heart. All wants and needs laid bare.

"THE HELL I DON'T. I DIDN'T DESERVE TO DIE. I DON'T DESERVE TO BE IN HELL."

"Well, tough, 'cause you're here."

"Just shut up! Just shut the hell up!"

The boy stalked back over beside the bed, leaning in and goading him, hot breath attacking his senses.

"Finally got a rise outta ya. About time. Now whatcha gonna do about it?"

"_What?_"

"I SAID 'WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?'"

"I don't understand."

"Are you going to fight?"

"I'm too tired."

"THE HELL YOU ARE! You fight, goddammit! I am _not_ gonna let you quit. YOU HEAR ME?"

"Why are you doing this? Who _are_ you?"

The boy smirked, leaning in and glowering with accusing eyes.

"I'm _you, _you freak_._ I'm Dean."

TBC

_I've wanted to have those two engage in a conversation for the longest time and I finally found a story where it fit. So what do you think? All comments are always appreciated. Thanks for reading. Take care, B.J._


	10. Where There's a Will, There's a Way

Chapter Ten - Where There's a Will, There's a Way

"Sam, I found something."

Sam jerked up from the stack of musty books he'd laid his head upon, every muscle on alert, his mind accelerating into high gear, eyes trained on Bobby. "Something… _promising?_ Or something, _this is it?"_

"I think this is it."

Sam blinked rapidly, his mouth opened and he started to speak and he clamped it shut. His eyes fixed on the older hunter, all the hope and longing and fear emanating out in a desperate plea that it would soon be over, that they would get Dean back.

"Bobby?" was all he managed to pull out, too afraid of another disappointment to offer more.

Bobby locked his gaze on the young man. He crossed the distance to stand before him, resting his outstretched hand on his shoulder and simply nodding. "I know… but I think this is it."

Tears welled in Sam's eyes and he shook his head up and down a few times as his mind whirred before he stilled, his body rigid and unyielding while his insides trembled. He took a deep breath and released it, finally voicing his concern, the buried fear ever present in his thoughts. "Bobby, it's been _six months_… if we do get him back… " He stopped again, more tears filling his desperate eyes, his voice cracking, barely able to get the words out. "Bobby.., if we get him back… Who will he be?"

Never one to pull his punches or offer up fairytale endings, Bobby simply shrugged his shoulders and replied in that distinctive raspy voice, "Hell, son… I wish I knew."

--

It was complicated, delicate, intense… but after they pulled it apart and examined it from every angle they both agreed it was what they'd been looking for… a way to bring Dean back. A miracle, a magic bullet, the impossible quest, but it was real and concrete, fundamentally sound.

There were a few ingredients that were hard to come by, but Bobby knew people.

Mainly Rufus.

With Bela out of the picture, Rufus was the one to go to for that rare mystical agent, that unique and exotic item, the critical piece in a complex puzzle.

After waiting all this time, a day or two wouldn't seem to matter, but to Sam it did. Every minute counted once he recaptured the hope of rescuing Dean. Every minute saved meant one less minute in Hell.

Every minute wasted meant _Dean…_

Sam couldn't think about it; that was all he'd thought about for one hundred and eighty-one days before Bobby gave him back his hope. Every waking hour and every endless nightmare over the span of six months focused solely on Dean. Imagining what it was like for him in Hell, wondering how he'd survive. _If _he'd survive until they could reach into Hell and pluck him out. Back where he belonged beside Sam, where he was always supposed to be, fighting evil and making those miserable sonsuvbitches pay for every second of torture, every ounce of blood.

Sam tried not to think about what they were doing to Dean, but he knew…

In his nightmares he saw…

He tried to focus on the hope, on the dream that was never before allowed to manifest. Dean was coming home… nothing else mattered.

--

Rufus didn't seem to grasp that point, continuing to do things in his own deliberate way.

Sam threatening to grind his face into the floorboards or pleading for compassionate mercy held no weight, instead only bringing on fanciful tales of how doomed they all were and how it didn't matter anyway; they all gonna end up the same at the end of the hunt.

Threats and pleas equal in their inability to spur the cynical hunter to action. If they hadn't needed his help Sam would have gladly put the bastard out of his misery.

No one stood between him and his brother… _No one._

Bobby arriving with a second bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue finally broke down the communication barrier and inspired him to make the call. Then they waited for delivery.

When they finally assembled all the necessary ingredients two days later they set to work. Sam insisted on mixing the herbs and mystical agents himself, lighting the final candle and canting the retrieval rite.

They waited as time slipped by, seconds silently sliding into minutes which tumbled into hours leaving only a deathly still in its wake.

"Bobby, what's happening? Where is he?"

"Shoulda worked… " Bobby scratched at the stubble on his jaw and narrowed his eyes, subtly shaking his head in puzzlement. "Sam.., I'm sorry."

"No. No, no, no… we just need more time. It has to work… it _has_ to."

Sam stood in the middle of the room, circling about with ears straining for a sound; wild eyes searching the darkness for movement, any movement. Shadows dancing along the far walls were only the breeze teasing the flickering flames of the candles; the faint murmurs wafting down the barren hallways were merely the distant call of a night owl lamenting its solitude.

"Dean… c'mon, man… _please_. C'mon! _God… _please bring him back."

After all the preparation and waiting to gather the necessary components this was the hardest part… when it didn't work. The devastation was total and excruciating. Sam slumped against the wall, shuddering as every memory, every fear jolted his body in a final, desperate plea for salvation. _For deliverance._

Bobby had been so sure.

Sam had willed it to be.

Sam methodically rechecked every measurement, every pronunciation, each and every symbol within the pentagram that was supposed to rip Dean out of Hell and give him back his brother… offering them both a second chance.

In the end it was all for naught.

Sam let loose a primal scream, howling like a trapped animal in the woods, frantic and fierce; the sound echoing within the empty room, reverberating against the windows and finally emptying out to nothing. In a fit of anger he threw the Latin ritual book against the wall, tattered pages ripping from the broken binding and floating down in a hail of yellowed paper; the worn leather cover laying dejected on the floor, propped precariously against the baseboard.

Bobby silently looked on, tears brimming his eyes, his own heart ripped in two for the brothers. He offered a touch of condolence but was shoved off and told to leave; a not-so-distant memory triggered and his heart stilled. He reluctantly walked away with familiar words, "You know where I'll be."

Another Winchester, the last one standing, asking only for his solitude to grieve. Somehow the Winchesters preferred it that way, wallowing in their pain, sinking down within their misery and embracing their wayward thoughts.

Sam waited the entire night, hoping, praying, clinging to a desperate belief that Dean would miraculously appear.

That time might relent and bring about a miracle.

Dean deserved a miracle.

Dean never deserved what life had dealt him.

He certainly didn't deserve an eternity in Hell.

--

In all the commotion and haste to save Dean the date never registered with Sam; his mind swimming with too many important details, more critical factors than what a calendar had to say. All he knew was it was time… time to bring Dean home. It wasn't until the morning after that the realization hit, hard and brutal; the blow more crushing as the light illuminated the tragic anniversary now commemorating the final loss of two Winchesters.

He was too young at her death to remember Mom, only knew she loved them and was taken that horrible night because of him. Only knew she died exactly six months after he came into this world and now he'd lost Dean too, one final tragic reminder that his very existence doomed his family.

Unlike Mom, Dean had been there his entire life. His brother and protector, the one person he knew he could always depend on; a rock, steady and sure, to lean against when the horrors of their lives bore down. Dean forever the big brother coming through for his sibling like he always did; only this time offering up the ultimate sacrifice and surrendering his own life and soul for his kid brother. A true hero and martyr, a man that time should have honored, protected and saved. A man that shouldn't have been burdened by the destiny his brother and this demon curse brought down upon his family.

The hellhounds had ripped Dean from this world and deposited him into Hell exactly one year after Sam himself died and was resurrected… at midnight on his own freaking birthday. Forever tainting that day as the day Dean died. It was a bitter truth Sam tried hard to ignore; that the day celebrated twenty-five years before with the birth of the younger brother now served as the final day for the older. Denial can only take you so far, especially with this perverse joke now joining in to mock him; the final hard truth that Dean was truly gone falling on the anniversary of Mom's death.

He wanted to burn every calendar that existed, tear the dates from his memory and start anew.

He wished he could purge his mind of every tragic event in the Winchesters' long and storied lives, but that would have negated their entire histories leaving a blank slate wiped clean of all the blood and tears and love. In the process he would have obliterated his family's very existence. Even amid all the pain, he could never deny them or forget… even if the end result meant losing Dean… losing Mom… losing Dad; sacrificing his entire family to this demonic curse that haunted his life.

As much as he may have wanted to, he could never forget his family was now gone… dead because of him… and his unholy connection to the demon; his dark destiny finally realized.

--

Morning came as the candles burned out and darkness engulfed him.

Sam closed his eyes and again willed Dean to be set free. _Demanded_ his brother be released from Hell. He opened his eyes to a cold and empty room, his own heart succumbing to the chill.

Hell wasn't listening.

Not to him.

For the first time since Dean died, Sam descended into a bottle that morning. Bobby returned at first light and watched over him like he'd done on numerous occasions with John, like he did on that one memorable occasion with Dean… when Sam left to go off to school. Like he wished he'd done on that second occasion when Dean sat alone and devastated, _desperate_ in Cold Oak…

Bobby, the last of a dying breed, the Winchester caretaker… the only one left since Dean was gone.

TBC

_Comments? Next chapter is written and awaiting the finishing touches. I'm not really evil… next chapter will post soon. Thanks for reading my story. Special thanks to all those who have chosen to review. Any and all comments are always greatly appreciated. Take care, B.J._


	11. Just Another Saturday Night

Chapter Eleven – Just Another Saturday Night

"I told you I'd see you in Hell."

_Shut up! Just shut the hell up! _

_Not real…_

_Not real._

_Please, don't let it be real. _

"How do you like it, _Dean?"_

_Go away._

_Not listening… not real._

"Now, don't be that way. I've missed you. Haven't you missed me?"

_I don't know you… don't want to know you. _

He stiffened against the hard white bed. It was starting again, the torture… _the nightmare. _The rumbling deep in his gut telling him, reminding him of all the agony he'd already withstood; all his nerve-endings twitching with anticipation and dread, spasms racking his body simply from the breath brushing across his flesh, alerting him that more pain was coming.

Inevitable… promised.

This was real…

_God, this is real_.

The dreams long gone. The boy nowhere to be found; lost again out there beyond his reach in the empty nothingness that was all that remained.

_All alone… _

_No one is coming._

_God… he's not coming. _

_Sammy…? _

A shudder ran down his spine and he tried to steady his mind, preparing. Tensing as the terror gripped him before he forced himself to remember who he was.., what he stood for.., why he was here.

He could do this, he _had _to do this.

He clenched his teeth tight and his jaw twitched, just a slight reflection of the pressure held back. Eyes wide open, he stared at the white ceiling before his lids gently fluttered closed and he drew his focus inward… and for a brief shining moment he remembered.

He remembered _everything_.

He was a hunter, bold and fearless. He'd withstood so much in his lifetime; surely he could handle even more in death. Surely he could handle whatever Hell could dish out. It wasn't as if he had a choice. He had to handle it. He'd made his choice long ago… in another life. This was for his family… _for Sammy._

_I can do this. _

_I __will__ do this._

He opened his eyes and nodded to the demon, a slight quirk of his mouth as he relaxed into the moment, settling his stomach and releasing a tense sigh. His lips curved up into his most confident smirk, fixed and determined, only his tender eyes briefly flickering between the cocky bravado he desperately tried to hold onto and the abject fear that threatened to undo him.

_Let's just move it along, shall we?_

_I'm ready. _

_Get on with it, bitch. _

As she moved forward he closed his eyes to the vision; he didn't need to see to believe, the darkness offering him his only chance at sanctuary now. The promised touch grounding him into the reality; the familiar pain reaffirming where he was, who he was.

What was coming.

This demon didn't resemble the others, deformed and grotesque; this demon looked like a pretty girl with a bright, pleasing smile hiding the truth behind her eyes, cold and distant, revealing her true sordid thoughts and evil desires. He readied himself for the pain, going deep within, seeking out some inner core of strength; that tempered steel backbone that could withstand anything, even _this…_

Latching on to whatever he could grasp hold of to make it through one more session.

_Just one more…_

_You can do this… you can._

_You can…_

"You tired? You need to rest?" She stroked the side of his face, soft fingers that didn't burn… _yet._ _Give it time._ "Tell me… maybe I can help." She cooed into his ear, her breath sweet like wildflowers in a warm meadow at sundown, tempting him to believe her lies, but he knew the truth. He saw her true form, the malice hidden within the pretty façade.

He struggled to move away from her touch, his look fierce as his thoughts offered up his standard bold response.

_Help? Yeah, right… 'cause that's just what you demonic skanks do, you help._

"I could… if you played nice. C'mon, Dean, you wanna play, don'tcha?"

_With you? Not hardly… bring me a rattlesnake and we'll talk._

"Always with the smart-ass mouth. You still got it, Dean. Still got that cocky 'tude goin' for ya, don'tcha?" She smiled again, face lit up with pleasure: sick, twisted, demonic joy. "Frankly, I'm surprised." She moved closer, her fingers softly stroking his chest. Tracing long, sensual lines along the smooth skin stretched taut, down to the trail of soft hairs that disappeared beneath his ragged jeans resting low along his hipbone, hovering dangerously close to forbidden fruit hidden beneath the faded denim. Her fingers slipped beneath the worn waistband, skimming across his abdomen, casually caressing the trembling flesh before she pulled her hand back and licked her fingers, her eyes shining with mischief. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Such a smart mouth on you. I didn't think you had the balls. A little too late though. Sorry, Beavis, it's not gonna help you here. Not hardly."

_It's all I got, bitch. Guess it'll have to do._

"All you have is what I _allow _you to have. You got that?" The demon licked her lips, pretty full lips framing shiny white teeth, turning the threat into something she could use, a tease and a promise… _a lie._ "Now, do what I say and you can rest."

_Lies… _

_Liar._

He turned his head away from the thing beside his bed; focusing his attention on the plain white walls… wondering what patterns would soon decorate them.

"DEAN! Where you goin'?" She snapped her fingers and reached to turn his head back towards her, staring intently into his clear emerald eyes, probing deep within. "Wake up, lover. You with me? I have plans for you… _big plans_."

_Yeah? Then start it… get it over with, skank._

The smile faded and the venom revealed itself. "You miserable, pathetic loser. You don't have the sac to survive Hell, now, do you?"

_Who are you, bitch?_

"I'm your worst nightmare, but you can call me Meg." She smiled, her hand threading through his hair, massaging his scalp as he lay bound before her. She reached down and again stroked his face as he struggled to turn away, her hands ice-cold now; so different from the others but just as malevolent.

His mind again lost in the fog of this hellhole. Everything but his courage flittering away as if he only had the strength to hold dear that which could most help him, his guts and determination, his fierce, stubborn refusal to yield.., what he most needed to survive… _here… now.._, in this place.

_Meg? Who the hell are you? I don't know you. Just get the hell away from me._

She gripped his chin and fixed his gaze upon her. Her fingers brutal as they dug in, nails drawing blood, her voice like molasses smothering him. "Ah, Dean… don't be that way. We're old friends… You sent me here. _Remember?"_

_No… I don't know you. _

_Never knew you._

_I don't want to remember. _

_Get the hell away from me._

"You don't remember me? Maybe you'll remember now, huh?" She smiled and her face contorted, shifting before his eyes into someone else; the features swelling out and in before a new face morphed from the clay. A familiar face all grown up.

His eyes widened at the sight, his head struggling to break free of the touch, to get far, far away.

_God, no! Sam… you're… _

_NO! You're __not__ Sammy… not real._

_Not real… all in my head._

_Get the hell away from me!_

"That's right. _Sammy_… the reason you're taking this little vacation. How's that workin' for ya? You seeing all the sights? The tour guides treating you right?" _His_ laughter rose up, a joyful cackle filling the room with the stench of lies and deceit.

_Wrong… this is so freaking wrong. _

_Who are you? _

_No… not real. _

_You're not him… Can't be._

"I'm the reason the flesh is peeled from your bones. I'm the sound that's ripped from your throat. You want me to reach in and rip the sound away?" he teased.

He leaned over. A face so familiar, but the smile was wrong… twisted, perverted; no gentleness in the eyes… not Sammy.

_Not Sammy. Can't be. _

_Wake up, Dean. _

_Wake up._

"C'mon, bro… give it a rest, will ya? This ain't no freakin' nightmare… not hardly. This _is _what it is… for all time. Unless you give me the amulet."

_What?_

"You heard me. The amulet. Give it to me."

_Why?_

"Why? How 'bout 'cause I asked nice?" The demon leaned in, that perverse grin inches from his face before turning and whispering in his ear, "Or how about if you don't… I'm gonna filet you like a mackerel?" He again touched his face, rough fingers now pressing in along his jawline, brutally gripping his chin and pinching until his mouth contorted; the pressure just short of crushing the bones. "And you know I'll do it… Don't you, Dean?"

_Why not just take it? _

His eyes grew wide, a light shining within as he glared at the demon. His lips curved up in a smirk. He felt a glimmer of control, tentative and uncertain, but it was something… _everything _in this place.

_You can't, can you?_

"Don't be stupid. Don't try to think.., you're not very good at it. Remember…? _I'm_ the smart one. Just hand it over."

He shook his head in the negative, his body tense, bracing for the coming retribution.

The demon with Sammy's face smiled, his hand on his upper arm squeezing, the fingers pressing in and leaving their mark. "You always did like it hard."

He shuddered on the cold, hard bed, this demon bringing more terror than all the others, this demon enjoying the game too much.

The promise of pain real and now.

_Guaranteed_… if he didn't surrender the amulet willingly. Probably even if he did, he wasn't a fool… somehow he remembered that much, _demons lie._

His mind swept him back to long ago, a scene playing out before him and he struggled to hold on to the moment. His fingers gripped in fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands, the pain helping him focus his thoughts.

_Both boys present, the younger and the older.., Sammy and me… Snow falling in a swirl of white beyond the dingy grey motel room. The scene outside the room visible through iced windows framed with frost hardly depicting a Norman Rockwell painting. The faint whiff of evergreen barely masking the stagnant foul smell hanging in the air, confirming they'd been confined in the claustrophobic space for too many days. They were sitting on a worn-out sofa in front of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree leaning precariously to one side, so few ornaments decorating the sparse limbs, even fewer presents beneath it. _

_Sammy reaches out with a small gift in his hand, wrapped with the comics from the Sunday paper. The full-color image of Prince Valiant on his black steed filling the space on the top of the package and the older boy.., me… takes the offered gift and runs his fingers over the coarse paper deep in thought before handing it back._

"_No, Sam… It's for Dad."_

"_Dad lied to me. I want you to have it."_

_The older boy took a moment to consider his actions before a hesitant smile drifted across his face.., my face…_

_I rip the package open and the amulet falls into my eager hands. I tenderly caress it, reverent fingers rubbing against the points of the horns, feeling the weight of the old gold, watching it glimmer in the dim room, picking up all the available light and reflecting it across my face. _

_A pensive look of awe and contentment is spreading across my face and I've never seen myself so happy, never felt such true bliss as I found in that desolate room on that long ago Christmas morning. _

In spite of all the torture and being in this place, this Hell, he remembered…

_He remembered._

He closed his eyes and watched the scene continue to unfold. A good memory he could use in this hellhole… something to hold onto once the torment starts anew.

_The boy, the one with the sandy-colored hair and the cocky grin.., me… carefully places the amulet over his head and releases it to thump against his chest. He looks up and his smile embraces his face, those luminous emerald eyes glimmering with heartfelt joy._

"_Thank you, Sam… I love it!"_

He saw the boy… he _finally_ saw the boy again and the boy saw him, looking straight at him and smiling that sweet, boyish grin.

_The amulet…_

_It was from the boy… _

_The boy gave it to me._

_Sammy…_

_Sammy gave it to me._

A warm feeling swept over him, comforting as he held tight to the memory.

Suddenly he's aware of the feel of the cold metal in contrast with the hot flesh over his heart, the sleight weight of the amulet resting against his bare chest, cool and comforting. His memory travels back over all the torture, all the torment he'd endured, all the gallons of blood spilt here in this pit of despair, and one thought stood out beyond all the pain. _The amulet_… always there, a steady presence when everything else fell away.

Anchoring him, keeping the thoughts of the boy close when he needed him most, bringing him solace when all else failed.

_No._

"WHAT?" the demon who took on Sam's face screamed before he smiled and leaned in again, the voice softer but holding more menace, unable to hide his vile contempt. "Don't you want the torment to end? Don't you want some peace?" he promised.

The voice registered as suspect… _insincere_. The hunter well aware that demons lie but the hope rushed out before he could think.

_Yes… _he blurted out in haste before he took the words back, his resolve growing stronger, buoyed by the boy smiling back at him in his dreams.

_NO! _

_No, no, no…_

_Sammy…_

_Sammy's present._

_Mine…_

_All mine._

_All I have…_

_All I have left of Sammy._

_No… NO! You can't have it._

"As you wish. Just remember the offer, Dean. I gave you an out." The grin was sinister, cruel in its intent, the voice cold and distant. "This is all your doing now."

He looked up into the demon's face and smiled, the corners of his lips curling up in defiance, his eyes glimmering with renewed strength. It felt strange, totally surreal, but so good to feel this confident again, in control even facing this...

_Whatever _this demon and the others had in store for him, he knew he could survive it.

The image again shifted, out of Sammy and back into the girl who taunted him… _Meg._

_Good._

He could handle facing her, refusing her lies, ignoring her taunts.

But then the girl's face also disappeared and he could see her true form, the most hideous of all the creatures. He cringed at facing this thing, but he never waivered. He would not allow it the satisfaction.

_Bring it, bitch!_

Invisible whips crisscrossed his chest, lashes opening up deep furrows like the banks of a river, the blood running swift toward the bay.

Red river…

He screamed as each length of leather kissed his flesh, sliding around his body until the final lick of the tip dug in.

The crack of the whip whistling through the air above foretelling of the coming pain.

The promise nothing compared to the reality.

His body tensed as it responded to the lashes and awaited the emerging scars. The map of his torment forever imprinted upon his body, under his skin, within his mind, wrapping around him, promising to never let him be.

Battle scars of a warrior.

He shook in fear and loathing, hating how the pain made him come alive, made each of the visions in his head wet with fresh tears. He gritted his teeth and bore down, he could do this… had done it so many times before. He knew it would end.

_It always ends.._, _eventually. _

Everyone in his head who came to comfort him was crying now.

_Tears for me._

He hated being the cause of their pain. His own pain enough to bear; he couldn't handle one more responsibility, one more ounce of blame.

_Please, don't cry… don't cry… not for me. _

_I don't deserve your tears… _

_Please…_

_I'm not worth it._

Too many voices, all jabbering on top of each other; echoing like the howling wind through the caverns of his empty soul. The words bringing a measure of comfort, bolstering his trembling nerves, and he silently thanked them.

An army of love standing behind him.

"_Hold on."_

"_He is coming."_

"_We are with you."_

"_Shhh, sleep."_

"_Dream… "_

"_Angels are watching over you… "_

"_You're not alone, baby… "_

"_I'll always be with you."_

But the boy was gone.

No one was there beside him.

He was alone.

Alone in Hell with no one but the demon.

The memory of that long ago Christmas already fading, falling back into the dark niches of his mind.

The dream disintegrating.

_Too short… too soon._

_I just need Sammy…_

_Where did he go?_

_Why did he leave me? _

The torture continued… days it seemed, but he fixed his mind and refused all offers of sanctuary.

The price too high…

He would not surrender the amulet. He'd rather die… or _whatever._

Eternity embraced him here in the pit.

Dreams no longer came.

Hadn't come in awhile.

So long gone.

All alone.

The end imminent.

The torment coming to a close.

The final session. The worst of all the sessions.

He knew it was over.

_I can't go on…_

_I can't do this again…_

_Not again…_

_Never again._

_Please, end it._

_Please._

_I just want it to be over._

"It's not that easy, Dean. No escaping me; not this time." Meg whispered in his ear again, repeating all her lies, all the torment ripping through his mind, warping his senses, taking him one step closer to breaking.

_Please… go away._

_Please._

_No thoughts…_

_Nothing… just give me nothing._

"_Hold on, baby… it's time."_

Her voice the last voice he heard, gliding soft and gentle over him, wrapping him in all the love he'd ever known and so much more. Everything he'd ever hoped for, all his wishes fulfilled… _finally realized_.

Blinding white light filled the room beyond capacity; exploding out into the fires of Hell extinguishing the flames in a smothering blanket of white.

Screams…

Panic.

Pleas…

For mercy.

For deliverance.

No longer by him…

Now directed toward him.

Begging him to let them be.

_No…_

No mercy for these creatures, these demons that spent eternity ripping apart his body. He wanted to see every last one die a horrible, violent death.

Screaming out their misery as he did.

To know what he's known; to feel what he's felt.

To be where he's been…

Writhing in Hell.

Suddenly he's floating above it all. Through the air, now clear and fresh, free of all the smoky residue of the fires; gliding on the wings of an angel, his feet no longer endangered by the thousands of bloody needles that lay about the floor. The blood filtering out and the white all encompassing. Bright and clean.

The heat of the room no longer blisters his skin, calling forth bubbles of oozing sores.

Free…

Finally free of this place.

Delivered…

Back to himself… back to the real world.

"_I'm with you, baby."_

"_You're not alone… You were never alone."_

"_Sleep… "_

"_Dream… "_

And so he does.

Everything falls away and the boy is back; a cool rag in his hand as he swabs the perspiration from his brow, soothing the ache of his head.

"Dean, you okay?"

At long last his lips turn up in a smile, happy and content again.

This dream better than all the others.

"Yeah, Sammy… never better. No worries."

"Just sleep, bro. Sleep."

He opened his eyes to gaze upon the boy, to gain reassurance that this was real, that Sammy was really truly here.

"Sammy, you came."

"I said I would."

"It was so long… so long. I didn't know if… "

"I know, dude. I'm here now. Just sleep. I'll be here in the morning."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He curled into the fetal position, his knees almost level with his chest, his bare feet pressed against the hardwood floor, his head resting on the curve of his arm, a slight smile on his lips.

Time again his friend, protecting him and keeping the demons away.

_Sammy came… he finally came._

_I knew you'd come…_

_I knew._

Night falls and he drifts into a deep sleep, no knowledge of what surrounds him.

No cares…

The fires finally out.

--

"Hey, McMahon, what'cha got?"

"Just another loon. Looks homeless. Probably a vet from the looks of him… " The imposing black man rolled his eyes. As a seasoned veteran of the streets he'd seen too many nights of strange happenings, too many space cadets off their meds crashing on a weekend bender. "Same old, same old… Uncommunicative. Combative. Had to restrain him. Just another Saturday night in America."

"Dangerous?"

"Oh, yeah!" he replied with a deep chuckle, his eyes revealing a tender heart beyond the protective bravado. He never got used to seeing the tragedy that was dumped on the streets of the city. A bold laugh and a casual manner the only saving grace that allowed him to continue in this harsh job.

"Got a name?"

"Everybody's got a name, Sarge."

"Smartass, so… do tell… "

"Heck if I know… he ain't exactly talkin'."

"Figures… just what we needed tonight. So… where'd they find him?"

"That's the kicker… He turned up sometime after midnight in one of those ritzy neighborhoods. Those folks pay a bunch to keep the white trash out along with all the other lowlifes, and here he pops up in their parlor of all things."

"Really?"

"Yeah, _really._ You know I don't need to make this shit up. Scared the crap outta the new owners, I can tell you that!"

"I bet. Anything else?"

"Nope, just another day in New Harmony."

"Put him on a ten day paper. See if they can find out who he is."

"Ten days ain't gonna cure this freak. Jack's got nothin' on this one. He's _definitely _long term."

"Poor bastard."

"Ain't that the truth?"

TBC

_See, I told you I wasn't evil. Still a long road ahead, I'm afraid. Thanks for reading, any and all comments are greatly appreciated. Take care, B.J._


	12. Send in the Clowns

Chapter Twelve – Send in the Clowns

They twisted and hurt him in ways he couldn't understand, harsh hands forcing him to do things he didn't want to do. Stretching him out on the hard, white bed; wrists and ankles immobilized, needles puncturing his veins. Black clouds drifting over him, smothering him in a stifling fog; the white room disappearing in a murky haze of grey.

He didn't know where he should be; he just knew he didn't want to be here.

Didn't want their hands on him: grabbing, bruising…. touching… burning… _hurting._

Pushing him backwards and then forward again, until he didn't know which way was up.

Where he was.

Where he was going.

He knew this was wrong.

So freaking wrong.

Not where he was supposed to be, but he couldn't see beyond here and… _now._

Couldn't see where he was meant to be.

He just knew it wasn't _here_, locked in this white room.

_There…_ maybe.

But that was too far away to recognize in the haze his mind swam in.

He tired from the thoughts weighing him down. He'd grown so weary and now the muck had gotten thicker. His heart wanted to fight back, move, _do something;_ but his muscles had atrophied and refused to budge, dead weight like he was wrapped up in a heavy winter coat with blue jeans and biker boots and thrown into a cold, dark lake and the pull of his water-laden clothes dragged him down, desperately gasping for air as the silt at the bottom was stirred up and everything went to black.

He tried to escape his captors but he only circled around, lost in the maze. Faster and faster, running and running, and he grew dizzy and weak, his head spinning. His legs tangled up, tripping over his own feet and collapsing beneath him; bringing him crashing down with a thud onto the cold, hard floor. Just a heap of broken, mangled flesh unable to do more than crawl and thrash about, spastic and out of control.

Frantic.

Desperate.

Scared.

_God, I'm scared…_

_So scared._

_What's happening?_

_Why are they doing this?_

He only wanted to close his eyes and make the motion stop.

Just slow everything down.

_Make it stop._

_MAKE IT STOP!_

This carousel wasn't fun… had never been fun. The music too loud, the lights too bright, making him hyper-aware of every movement, every brush of air wisping across his flesh.

Circling and circling… round and round again.

Surreal…

Images constantly shifting within a kaleidoscope, random and wild. Strange visitors watching him; appearing and then disappearing an instant later.

Sometimes talking nonsense; other times silently staring, beady eyes boring holes through his flesh.

A 60's acid trip, psychedelic and intense.

_No, it was never fun…_

Except to them.

Those funhouse weirdoes with their white faces and spiky red hair. Their bulbous noses and big, false smiles that hid the malice. Huge Sasquatch feet in freaky shoes that clattered when they walked on the cold, hard linoleum.

Click-clack… click-clack… over and over again, echoing down the long stark hallway announcing their arrival.

_Clowns…_

_God, I hate 'em._

_Why'd it have to be clowns?_

They taunted him, poking and prodding with their long bony fingers.

Tiny bells jangling…

Twisted faces, bizarre grins.

Balloons, bright red, but they brought no cheer. Red like blood. The color bold, making him remember.., remember things he only wanted to forget.

He squeezed his eyes tightly closed.

_I don't want to remember._

_Just leave me alone…_

_Please, just go._

They didn't scare him and he didn't know why exactly, because they were really freaky and so damn strange… Maybe somewhere in the back of his mind he knew there were more frightening things out there in the real world.

Things waiting in the shadows to take him.

But still, this place… so strange… _different._

He didn't know why, but different somehow.

He felt a strong urge to blast the freaking clowns when they came to taunt him.

Blast them with a shotgun and he cringed… _laughing hysterically… _

_I must be crazy… _

_Freaking insane! _

_They're clowns, for godsakes!_

_They're only clowns._

Harmless…

Defenseless…

Until the torture started in again and he cried out to Sammy. Sam's voice right there… right beside him, whispering in his ear. He strained to see him, but the fog was too thick, choking him as he struggled to see into the darkness closing in. His mind aimlessly wandering until the words stumbled upon him… like a bad horror movie, the soundtrack playing in his head.

"And apparently clowns kill… "

_Oh, God! No… this is sick…_

_Sick… sick… sick…_

_This is so freakin' weird._

_Not real…_

_Not real._

_God… crazy…_

_Crazy…_

They laughed and screamed with glee as they pranced around him.

Until they stopped to inspect him.

Roaming hands, searching fingers… gripping his arms and leaving their imprint.

_Holding… hurting… trapping…_

Touching and burning.

Filling up his white room.

Screams.

_My screams._

Tears.

_My tears._

His body shaking uncontrollably.

His insides just as mangled as their twisted faces.

Knots forming in his gut, turning him inside out.

_This is wrong._

_I don't belong here._

_Let me be._

_Please… _

_Please, go away._

No end in sight.

Voices ringing in his ears, repeating over and over.

He tried to grab hold of them, trying to remember the good.

He knew there was good somewhere, but he'd lost it in the journey and could no longer find it.

The truth trapped deep inside his mind.

He just couldn't get there.

Children's voices…

Drifting down, circling him, fluttering about on angel's wings.

"It's only a clown, Sammy."

"No, send it away."

"All right… alright. He's gone. See? I told you he wouldn't hurt you."

"How do you know?"

"He's only a clown, Sammy. He _can't_ hurt you."

"But _how_ do you know?"

"I just do. Trust me, he won't hurt you."

"Promise?"

"I promise. I'll protect you."

"But Dean, who's gonna protect you?"

"Me? No need, Sammy."

"But, Dean… "

"Nothin's _ever_ gonna get me. Okay, tiger?"

"You promise?"

"I promise."

_They can't get me… _

_Nothin's ever gonna get to me…_

_Not here… not now._

_Not ever._

_They're not real…_

_Not real…_

_Not real…_

Panic gripped him, coiled in his gut and he trembled.

The fear real. Tangible.., he could taste it on his lips, feel it in his bones.

Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

_Maybe I'm not real?_

_Maybe I'm not here?_

_What if this is all in my head?_

"I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay?"

"Yeah, Dad, you know I will. You're scaring me."

"Don't be scared, Dean."

_Don't be scared… _

_Don't be scared?_

_Are you freakin' nuts, Dad?_

_Can't you see me?_

_Can't you see __them__?_

_Sammy…_

_SAMMY!_

"_Shhhh, baby. Calm down. It's alright. I'm here."_

He sat rocking himself on the floor, his arms wrapped tight around his legs. His head buried at his knees.

_I can't do this… I can't._

_I can't do this… Make it stop… Please, just make it stop._

"_Close your eyes. Go on, close them. What do you see?"_

_Nothing… It's black, it's all black… _

_God, I can't see anything._

His heart seized and he couldn't breathe; his panic building steadily until it was _all _and it consumed him. Their hands wouldn't release him, his mind swamped with the memory of the leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles laying him out for any horrors they could impose, so vulnerable and scared.

_Oh, God… I'm so scared._

"_Shhh, I'll help you. Just breathe… that's it, nice and steady. You can do this. You can. You're strong, Dean… so very strong. Always so strong and brave. Look, now… what do you see?"_

His eyes flashed about the room and the motion started again, scenes swirling around him making his head spin. The voices circling about.

"See, my mom… I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave."

"_Baby, you are brave. I'm so proud of you… so very proud. It won't be long now. Hold on."_

"Mommy, I miss you. Please come back. Mommy… I'm scared."

_Mom?_

_Please, Mom… are you there?_

"Dean, your mom's gone. She's not coming back."

"No, Daddy… don't say that."

"Dean, you need to be a man now. Can you do that? I need you to take care of Sammy."

"I will, Dad. Nothing will ever hurt Sammy. I promise."

_I promise… _

_I promise. _

_Have to find Sammy._

_Protect him._

_Keep him safe…_

_Protect Sammy._

He couldn't move his body, he couldn't control his fate. All he could do was focus on the thoughts that ran through his head, faster and faster, making him dizzy as they whirled on a loop. He shoved the fear and panic down, deep within and tried to think, tried to figure out how to save Sammy.

_Have to get to Sammy._

_Sammy…_

_Find Sammy…_

_SAMMY!_

--

The white room kept him contained. The padded walls prevented him from hurting himself. The soundproof door muffled his screams and kept him from disturbing the other patients.

Whirling softly as it panned from one side to the other, the security camera monitored his frantic movements as he paced within the four walls; recording all the conversations where he acted out every role, his face animated, grimacing from a pain that welled from deep within. Eyes fierce and wild, searching the barren space for something that wasn't there, ghosts or visions… _the psychotic delusions of a fractured mind._

He made a fascinating case study, one for the medical annals.

When he became too agitated, descending into the black emptiness that threatened to consume him, desperately screaming for his 'Sammy', they sedated him, strapping him to the white bed so he wouldn't fall and hurt himself. Exhaustion and the sedatives the only means to offer him rest, a respite from being strung out on pure adrenaline and a misguided urge to fight back… to try and escape.

Hours passed as he railed against the monsters in his mind, raged against the creatures who tortured him when it was his own hands that tore away his hospital whites; scratching his bare chest and drawing up bloody welts before they were again forced to strap him in a straight jacket or immobilize him on the bed, dependant on the time of day and which drugs they'd pumped into his system.

His doctors still trying to find the perfect cocktail of meds that would settle him down and calm the rage within, and perhaps with time allow them to reach the troubled soul trapped deep inside.

After the drugs took effect he'd become compliant and still, no noise save constant humming as he rocked himself, vacant eyes staring off into space worlds apart. No one recognized the tune until the new kid, interning from college, noted the name of the song on his chart, Seek & Destroy by Metallica.

_Our brains are on fire_

_with the feeling to kill_

_And it won't go away_

_until our dreams are fulfilled_

_There is only one thing_

_on our minds_

_Don't try running away_

'_cause you're the one we will find_

The repetitive nature of the chorus became a chant, somehow calming the patient despite the angry message inherent in the lyrics.

_Searching,_

_Seek and Destroy_

_Searching,_

_Seek and Destroy_

_Searching,_

_Seek and Destroy_

Over and over and over the chorus repeated. The young man mumbling the words with urgency, on occasion interjecting the brother's name... _Sammy._

The doctors now starting to wonder if he was on a mission to kill, the song tainting their first impressions, until he again would scream out in love and desire the name… as a plea for deliverance more than a curse for revenge. The truth was they were at a loss to explain the twisted turns his mind took, too fractured to respond to reason.

The message hauntingly fitting in the devastated world he lived in. The true meaning behind the lyrics unclear, random or holding some greater significance? Chances are they would never find out, this one being that far gone.

The sounds at least offering him a means to communicate with the outside world; the world that existed beyond his tortured mind. The random, desperate cries for Sammy occasionally bellowing out beyond the still; his one true attempt to reach out to the real world for help.

Days stretched beyond a week and they had yet to determine who he was or where he came from, the ten day paper quickly turning into an indefinite commitment. His identity remained shrouded in mystery, the barest facts offering some elucidation if you could read the signs. His body sculpted and toned like a soldier conditioned for war and bearing the scars from too many conflicts. Shrapnel, bullets and blades leaving their distinctive imprints upon his flesh and most assuredly his mind, detailing what must have been harrowing years on the front lines.

His mind unraveling, and in the course of its disintegration revealing the hidden dangers of war: the trauma unavoidable when man is faced with the savagery of his own kind and the totality of the world's carnage. His eyes haunted and lost, like he'd faced too many battles with no recourse than to maim and kill and somehow, in some way, live with the horrors of what he'd faced and done in the need to survive. Retreating into the make-believe world he invented to bring solace when the terrors his mind dredged up threatened to topple him into the vast beyond.

One more soldier broken by the devastation war brings.

The problem being no branch of the service claimed him, no military match offered up a name, an identity beyond 'brother'. His wild ramblings only making sense when he cried out for his brother… his _Sammy_. The National Missing Persons Report not offering any further assistance. His fingerprints somehow obliterated as if the very skin had been peeled away.

He quickly joined the ranks of the disenfranchised; unloved and unwanted, falling through the cracks of society. Left to join the thousands of other poor unfortunates as wards of the state.

No one seemed to be looking for him. No one seemed to care.

One more victim of fate and indifference.

The doctors were unsure if they were seeking a blood brother or a comrade in arms, one amongst the brotherhood of soldiers. In any case, this Sammy, the one person who might be able to break through the silent wall the poor bastard had erected around his fragmented mind, couldn't be found. Perhaps never even existed, one more fantasy his mind created… only this time to offer hope.

The undeniable truth was this soldier was probably permanently lost, too shattered by his experiences to ever fight his way back. The damage too great; the aftermath of all his many battles too severe. The war was finally over for this broken warrior… and in all likelihood so was his life, or any semblance of a real life beyond the white room.

TBC

_Thanks again for reading and special thanks to those that choose to review. From the response on the last chapter, I'm not sure how you feel about Dean being out of Hell… or maybe you're not sure what's going to happen to him now?? _

_In any case, Sam and Bobby will be back next chapter. Until then, take care, B.J._


	13. To Dream the Impossible Dream

_A heartfelt thank you goes out to everyone who reviewed on the last chapter, the response was wonderful. Like many, I write these stories because I need to further explore the Winchesters, but I'm the first to admit it is a very nice bonus to know the readers also appreciate my efforts. _

_Thank you… I hope I don't disappoint as I finish out this story. I'm not sure how many more chapters, but we are definitely on the downward slope. Later, B.J. _

--

"_We can speak without voice to the trees and the clouds and the waves of the sea. Without words they respond through the rustling of leaves and the moving of clouds and the murmuring of the sea." _– Paul Tillich

Chapter Thirteen – To Dream the Impossible Dream

The hallway stretched on forever, an endless expanse of cold, white walls and over-waxed floors. The lights too bright, reflecting back the sterile confines, empty and vast. His heart pounded in his chest, fierce and panic-stricken as he raced, slipping and sliding along the slick linoleum. The still surrounding him made his heavy breaths seem even louder, roaring like a lion running swift through the jungle, the rhythm of his heartbeats unrelenting, the steady pounding measuring out his terror on tribal drums. Freedom ahead, just beyond the double doors.., _almost there_.., but then he faltered, dizzy and weak, his legs buckling beneath him, staggering and crashing against the wall, unable to forge onward.

He gripped at the white expanse to catch his breath, panting like a trapped animal, his eyes desperately scoping out the possible dangers lurking around the bend. His body heaving as his fists pounded back against the wall in frustration… _so close… so damn close_. Leaning into the wall, he mustered all his strength to slide up the solid expanse, standing tall with his shoulders pressed firm against the support. His eyes squeezed shut before flying open at a slight sound off to his left and the horror closing in on him sent a wave of fear pulsing through his veins. He physically shook as his tenuous circumstance became clearer, tears welling in his eyes from the hopelessness. His right fist again pounded back against the wall and then he pushed off, trembling but determined as he came face to face with the evil chasing him.

Vitriolic words dug into his gut, venom designed to torture and destroy; the nasty comments leaving their black imprint on his soul. "He left you here. And he's _not _coming back. You're all alone. That's just fact."

"No.., _never_. He _is _coming. I know he is." His response firm and sure, even as his heart skipped a beat.

"You're somethin', aren't ya? A bit dense are we? Haven't you learned _anything_ here? After all this time?" The tone was mocking, delighting in shoving the ugly words down his throat, forcing him to hear things he only wanted to deny. That he only wanted to forget were ever uttered… _ever considered_. "A bit delusional, don'tcha think?" The laughter cutting, digging into his wounds and opening them all up again, _always going for the blood_. "It's over. A done deal."

"NO! You're lying. I won't give up. He _will_ come… I _know_ he'll come."

He longed to make the words real, to make _him_ appear before them like a freaking knight in shining armor come to the rescue. Not that he ever wanted to be the fair maiden… _God, I'd rather die_… But for once he needed help; he needed his brother to save him like he promised.

He _needed _it… just this one time.

To finally be able to cast aside all doubt. To know he was safe, _protected_… to know he _mattered_. That someone cared… that Sammy wouldn't leave him here. That he _was_ coming… _just like she said._

_She promised… _

_Sammy promised._

"_All right. Yeah, we'll find a way to save you."_

Tears glistened in his eyes as he remembered that moment. Sam sitting beside him in the familiar comfort of his car and how he wanted to believe it was possible, that Sammy _would_ save him. The truth welling up inside him, _how much he wanted to live. _

And then he smiled in response to his kid brother as he nodded in agreement.

The comfort he felt _now,_ in this moment was real but fleeting, vanishing in a whiff of hopelessness and slipping from his grasp.

As he glanced about at the four white walls closing in on him, he felt the terror slip inside his mind, burrowing through his protective barriers and settling in for the long haul. Uncertainty fueled by countless nights of solitude and pain after endless days of torture made each hopeful declaration harder to maintain. All the horrors pressed against his thoughts, squeezing his lungs of sustenance; so vivid all it took was the memory for his body to react in tortured agony as he flinched away, shivering as he struggled to stay strong. Still… he was a stubborn ass and he wouldn't let go of the dream… _the hope_… He couldn't. His belief and faith in his brother all that was left in this barren, white prison that confined him.

He hated these fiends that held him here against his will, weaseling into his mind and warping his thoughts. He strained against the intrusion, struggling to find some truth and escape this hellhole, to finally get back to where he was meant to be, but the more he fought them the worse the torment became, every move blocked and thrown back against him with increased force.

Strong arms grabbed him, pulling him back, kicking his feet out from under him and throwing him to the floor, face mashed into the cold, hard linoleum as a knee pressed into his back. Twisting and turning he struggled against the firm grip, grunting from the strain, fighting with everything he had; but it wasn't enough, his reflexes slow, his strength waning, his heart unable to make up the difference from what his body was able to fight back with. His head drowning in a sea of muck and confusion; his thoughts scattered and lost.

Defeated in body, his heart still held tight to the hope floating just beyond reach. His mind shutting down to the reality of his situation as they manhandled the straitjacket over his thrashing arms, cinching the straps and entombing him within the constraints; his eyes now offering up his only motion as they scanned the hall searching out the demons that lurked just beyond sight. He stilled and the song reflexively started playing in his head, a chant circling about, a calming influence when all else deserted him.

_Searching,_

_Seek and Destroy_

_Searching,_

_Seek and Destroy_

_Searching,_

_Seek and Destroy_

_Searching,_

_Seek and Destroy_

_Sammy… Sammy… Sammy…_

Over and over again.

_A desperate plea for deliverance…_

_A tremulous prayer for salvation._

His eyes flew open, wild and crazed, and he frantically looked about the room he was in. His heart pounded in his chest as he bolted from the bed he'd fallen into the night before, crashing against the wall in his haste to reach the door. With a trembling hand he grabbed hold of the doorknob and gave it a half-turn, stumbling into a hallway where the morning light bathed him in a yellow cast that was warm and welcoming; faded wallpaper decorating the walls, a scuffed wooden floor laying rough beneath his bare feet, totally different from the stark, white expanse of the other hallway. A noise startled him and he pivoted, staring directly into familiar eyes, warm and sincere, filled only with concern, gazing at him from beneath a dirty trucker cap.

"Sam, what the hell's wrong with you?"

--

The cold, white room remained his prison, stark and sterile and isolated. The loneliness wrapped around him as he closed his eyes to the emptiness and tunneled deep inside, through dark corridors that held so many secrets, a thousand truths just beyond sight. He tentatively reached out, his hands skimming along the walls, searching all the nooks and crannies. Trying to touch something real, grasp hold of some truth, but every notion he almost realized proved elusive, slipping through his fingers like water and evaporating away in the mist.

Just when he thought he understood, it was all yanked out from under him and he again went crashing over the waterfall into the depths, a black abyss filled with unbearable pain and suffering and nothing else, swallowing him in the expanse. He thrashed about trying to rise above the muck but the weight kept pulling him under until he was drowning in confusion, the white of his room a bold contrast to the dark consuming his mind.

Frustration and agitation dueled for his attention while his anger and helplessness steadily built. Nothing important resided within these four white walls that held him, nothing that truly mattered. Everything that mattered was somewhere out there beyond those double doors or buried deep within his mind, unattainable and lost to the darkness.

_Sammy…_

_Sammy was what mattered._

_All that mattered._

_Protect Sammy…_

Sometimes if he laid very, very still, and slowed his breathing down to just a wisp, he could hear voices off in the distance. He couldn't comprehend what they were saying, but he knew they talked of him. It didn't make sense what little he could make out, nonsense, babbling, not who he was.

They didn't know him.

That much he knew. He didn't quite know who he was either, or why he was here, or where he was supposed to be, but he knew the answers were somewhere in his head, locked up tight, secured and protected within an intricate maze. He'd lost the way along his travels, the key somehow misplaced and try as he might, he couldn't pick the lock.

The mystery made him anxious and twitchy, his skin crawling with all the unanswered questions and he didn't even know the right questions to ask, or whether the answers would ever come, everything too muddled and random. He refused to surrender to the hopelessness; he was too ornery and stubborn for that. He was determined to find himself in the abyss, discover who he was… what he was… why he was here and where he should be…

Focusing all his energy he would keep on trying, determined to break through those doors, beyond to the other side where his true reality existed.

He knew someone was waiting for him, if he could only reach them.

Someone who cared… someone to stand beside him as he faced off against his demons.

Day after day he ventured into the depths, the hallowed caverns of his mind, stumbling through the dark in search of answers.

--

"Oh, god, Bobby… I saw him." Sam looked up, all his emotions playing across his face, a vision of terror and hope hopelessly intertwined. "He was so scared." He placed his hand over his heart as the memories welled up, the rapid, heavy thumps connecting him to his brother in some strange symbiotic bond. "I _felt _his heart pounding in my chest, the fear gripping him. He's terrified, Bobby… God, I've never seen him so scared." His eyes fixed on his good friend, the one person who felt the loss almost as deeply as himself, the one person who'd been beside him in support the entire time as he sought to save his brother. The only person who could possibly understand, the only family they had left now besides each other. "He _needs_ me, Bobby. Oh, god, he needs me."

Bobby subtly shook, his voice registering only the slightest wonder and shock, his hunter resolve and fatherly love conflicting over the possibilities. His own face displaying his desperate hope tempered by the harsh reality of six lost months.., six months of Hell and what that might mean for the older Winchester brother. "Sam, you really think it was real? You really think it was… _Dean?"_

"It sure felt real, Bobby. It wasn't just a nightmare. It was like I _was_ Dean… I felt the panic and the terror. I saw everything through his eyes." Sam nodded his head slowly up and down, his eyes closing in contemplation before opening again as the tears glistened, his lips trembling from the thoughts swirling through his mind. "It was _real,_ Bobby. He's out there somewhere, I know it… We have to find him… we have to."

Bobby rubbed at the stubble along his jaw, his eyes searching as he gathered the facts. "Was it Hell?"

"No fires, no screaming… some place _different_. White, Bobby… everything was white. I don't know… I can't be sure."

"Okay, then. Let's get started. Tell me everything."

--

They say it's always darkest before the dawn. For him it went pitch black, a night devoid of any light or hope before a glimmer of light cut through. Somehow, in some unexplainable way, he managed to find the smallest piece of himself and he tenaciously hung on with everything he had, crawling his way back toward daylight and freedom. It was a long and treacherous journey and he stumbled, cut and bruised, through a battery of trials but eventually he made progress, slight as it seemed.

As the fog cleared he adapted. Survival skills he never knew he possessed allowing him to mold his behavior to accommodate his surroundings.

The more he cooperated the less they punished him. Somewhere in the depths of his being, he'd always known the submissive response got you brownie points; he simply never cared before, innately knowing that wasn't his style. But he _was_ a survivor, obviously had already endured unimaginable horrors, and he could change if need be.

That is once the fog cleared enough that he could think beyond sheer panicked reactions to the torment that embroiled him.

It was a long, convoluted route but he finally reached a point where he started to think in simple terms. Like a dog beaten until it finally responded as expected, he did what needed to be done to survive this place. Only by giving them what they wanted could he get what he needed.

Once the switch was thrown, he reacted differently. He was smart, smart enough to pretend, play the game like all the demons had wanted him to do all along. As long as he could still stay true to who he hoped to be, he could act the part. It became a new game, a game of his choosing, acting like they expected unless it really mattered.

Less and less mattered in this place… the only thing that truly mattered was escaping and finding Sammy…

_Finding himself…_

So he played their game…

Agreeable and respectful.

Obeying their stupid rules, making himself ever smaller so they wouldn't notice him.

Blending in…

Pliant and quiet.

Watching and waiting…

Planning and plotting…

They still watched him relentlessly, but without the show… without his wild outbursts or violent tantrums, they started to lose interest, lumping him in with the solemn, stoic simpletons who were robotic and unthreatening.

The true nature of his rage buried deep within behind a fragile façade of peaceful contentment.

He found he could breathe so much easier without their hands on him pushing and prodding, holding and hurting. The freedom to simply _be_ gave him back a sense of purpose, a ray of hope that he could control a small piece of his surroundings.

The first day he managed to last until nightfall without them touching him his greatest victory.

The turning point came when he was able to stop swallowing their funny little pills. He'd hide the pill at the back of his throat as they prodded his mouth open inspecting him like a horse on the auction block. By the time he could wander away and throw it back up the taste of the pill disintegrating against his tongue made him gag even more, but the full effects were tempered and he started to regain the ground he'd lost in the haze they'd kept him isolated in. He still felt queasy and unsteady, his mind still searching out the truth, still not sure who he was or why they were doing this, but he slowly started to become self-aware enough to play along, finally able to recapture a piece of who he once was…

Until the black of night jolted him back to his reality… _here and now._

Nights tormented him with visions unspeakable, the frantic screams that escaped his own mouth often waking him to a trembling mass of terror bathed in the glistening sweat of his panic. The horrors only deepening as they came and pushed him down into the bed while he futilely fought back, thrashing and yelling to no avail as they strapped him down and plunged the needles into his veins and he lost himself all over again, slipping back down into the depths of his fears and disappearing.

Mornings after brought more confusion and that hopeless drifting feeling that made him furious and unreasonable. The yo-yo effect from almost clawing his way back to sanity only to be cast back down into the muck wore at his frazzled nerves, making him doubt he'd ever escape, that Sammy would ever come. That he'd ever find himself for real. Sometimes, for fleeting moments, he didn't care…

It would be so easy to just let go…

For some unknown reason that scared him the most because he knew he _should_ care, that he needed to stay strong, that he was supposed to fight. It just became ever harder as the days dissolved into weeks or months, time meaning nothing in this white room. Time tumbled down an open shaft and threatened to drag him down with it as his mind struggled with all his conflicting emotions. Sometimes losing himself completely and forgetting why he should fight… or who he was fighting for.

When he teetered on the razor's edge of defeat, as his mind shut down and his soul drifted toward the darkness, when he most needed the support was when he would hear her voice whispering in his ear, _"Believe, baby… He is coming." _

_I try… I try…_

Desperation filled his lungs as he cried out, tears streaming down his cheeks as his emerald eyes were blinded by the white lights.

_Mom, don't leave me. Please stay… please._

_I don't want to be alone… I'm so tired of being alone._

When the drugs really took hold, he wondered if he even existed. He began to doubt that he ever mattered when time wore on and on and no one came to save him. It was easier to not care, to not have expectations… to no longer dream.

The dreams coming less and less.

The others disappearing from his thoughts, fading from his memory… even _her_ voice growing ever fainter in the gathering mist.

After each drug-induced morning he swore it would be the last time he'd succumb to the nightmares. He told himself he'd be strong enough to persevere silently and not let the demons win, then each night the reality of his terror overcame him and he stumbled and fell backward, tumbling down into the blackness awaiting him.

The dark billowing up and surrounding him…

Devouring him.

Welcoming him home… home to his new reality.

Over time his mind eventually would start to clear again, more focused and sure; still on occasion cluttered up with random thoughts and emotions that swept him over the waterfall to thrash about in the depths desperate to breach the surface. Slowly and steadily he gained shaky ground, the total panic retreating into the almost manageable tremors that he tried to control by pressing his fingernails into the fleshy insides of his forearms to focus his thoughts and calm his fears. The crescent-shape imprints his nails left bleeding red and reminding him of before.

Sometimes the blood the only thing that grounded him, making him come alive and not feel so dead inside. The blood was fascinating to him now in some weird, sick way… warm and sticky and wet, something to concentrate on besides the unbearable pain that twisted his gut into a tangled mass of hurt. Presenting him with a new pain, real and defined, a pain he could handle… _had handled for so long down there._

He most hated how the blood soothed him…

He knew it was wrong, so freaking wrong, but everything about this place was wrong and he didn't know how to make it right.

All he could do was survive the best he could… _however he could._

--

In the end it didn't take much to find him. Once they knew to look, that it was possible, that not only the improbable, but the damn-near impossible had actually come to pass, their hunter training took hold and the research quickly brought about the desired results.

How easy it was to find Dean the final insult. The pure simplicity of it only deepening Sam's already considerable pain at failing his brother. Regardless of everything he and Bobby had done over the course of the year to try and save Dean from his demon deal, it hadn't been enough.

Nothing had been enough.

He'd failed to save Dean when the hellhound came to take him.

He'd stood by helpless as the beast ripped his brother to shreds, bleeding him out before his horrified gaze as Dean struggled with his last breath to live.

He'd surrendered his brother and his soul to the fires of Hell.

He'd failed.

And now this.

Dean needed him, was waiting for him to come rescue him, and how did he respond? By doing nothing productive, by wallowing in his own pain and loss and standing idly by with his thumb up his ass.

Ultimately failing his brother yet again by leaving him in that place when he should have known… should have acted… should have saved him.

Somehow something had worked some major mojo miracle and ripped Dean from Hell, whether it was fate or luck or the retrieval spell canted on the anniversary of Mom's death.

_One life taken.., one life given?_

Sam sure as hell didn't have the answer, and at this point in time he didn't care about the whys or hows; he only wanted Dean back. He needed to see him, touch him, know for certain that this broken vet locked up in the psych ward at the Evansville State Hospital was truly his brother and not some freakish look-a-like imposter that mirror his brother down to the minutest detail.

A desperate, anxious doubt lagged in his mind as he remembered the shapeshifter, but he refused to believe that.

This _was_ Dean… _it was. _It had to be.

How many athletic young men with chiseled features, emerald eyes, and a protection tattoo over their heart could there be missing in America? Found incoherent in the very house where the end came?

The description the doctors provided matched Dean down to the exact details of his many scars; scars from before the night he died. Every scar recalling a hunt gone wrong, a moment in time when Dean faced peril unimaginable to most men, and Sam remembered every single instance, every scar a permanent record of their exploits.

This war vet didn't display the hellhound scars of that night, which made Sam nervous and hopeful. The broken patient further didn't show any physical indications from six months spent in Hell, aside from a fragmented mind that couldn't even answer the most basic question of who he was.

Sam hoped that meant the residual effects of Hell could be swept from his mind as well as his body, a distant memory that would fade over time as the scars had. That Dean would heal and return to himself; again be the big brother Sam had always looked up to and wanted to be.

He anxiously paced within the confines of a random motel room half-way between Bobby's place in South Dakota and where Dean died in New Harmony, Indiana; a broken fan belt stranding him at dusk for the needed repairs and where he now awaited an email with the patient's photograph. His gut twisting with the intense desire that this truly was Dean tempered by the very real fear of whether this tortured man would ever truly be Dean again.

His mind constantly rewinding all the times Dean stood firm and strong, facing down unrelenting horrors and persevering, being the warrior soldier their dad and circumstance demanded of him; hoping against all reasonable hope that Dean would overcome this latest terror in the same inimitable fashion.

Dean always survived, was the strongest, most determined man Sam had ever known, but every man has that tipping point where the scales are too monstrously stacked to be overcome. Since the tender age of four, Dean had proven more resilient and bold than either Sam or their dad, the one who'd held their family together through all the years, but every man has his breaking point.

Most would have broken long ago.

Lingering doubts tormented his mind as he remembered fractured scenes from before. Moments when Dean lowered his guard and let his fears show, welcoming his brother into his hidden world where the larger-than-life, big-brother superhero morphed into a man simply trying his best, at times still that child trapped by his life and unrealistic expectations, shivering in the dark, struggling to be strong and not disappoint.

Dean had been so close to breaking, shattered by Dad's death and his demon deal to save his older son, and the unrelenting belief that the dead should stay dead; his tender heart on display through sensitive eyes as he struggled with questions that had no answers. Why he had lived when so many others died: Marshall… Layla… Dad… and all the innocents they were too late to save.

The constant pressures of his life and the burden to protect his kid brother taking him to the brink of defeat on numerous occasions until he finally admitted to being tired of the fight, the constant struggles, the endless demands.

Simply wanting it to be over… on the verge of giving up.

Dangerously close to surrendering everything he ever believed in.

But Dean wasn't a quitter.

He had fought to live, had actively sought a way out of his deal; stoically surrendering to the inevitability only when all hope deserted them. Even when the end came, his instincts took over and he fought with everything he had to live, only succumbing to death when the hellhound proved too great a foe.

This man lost within his mind and trapped in the psych ward _had_ to be his brother. Somehow Dean must have fought his way out of Hell. That was the Dean Sam held tight to, the man that would never give up, regardless of how hard the struggle became. The warrior that could come back from Hell in one piece, whole and fierce, strong and true, ready to resume their war on evil.

Sam squeezed his eyes closed and prayed that was the case, the best case scenario… _a miracle_. This _was _Dean and he would be all right… over time with Sam and Bobby by his side. He _had_ to be… he was Dean… strong and true… a warrior… _a survivor_.

Only when he was in his presence and could look into those huge emerald eyes would he know with absolute certainty, would the doubt twisting his gut into a nervous pretzel be laid to rest.

For now though, his instincts told him this was it. His visions had stopped when yellow-eyes died, but this dream was so vivid, so graphic that he knew his connection with Dean allowed him this one final blessing. Allowed him the chance to find him and save him.

The impossible quest was about to be realized.

He believed it with all his heart.

He willed it to be true.

When the computer alerted him of a new email he momentarily froze, his hand trembling as he clicked the key to open the attachment. The picture filled the screen and all his hopes and fears collided as he shook before the image. It was a picture of a Dean so broken that no reflection of the real man existed within this hollow shell, eyes dead and vacant stared blankly forward, no expression on the pale mask of his perfect features, no upturn of his lips in a cocky smirk or bemused grin, no furrow of his brows in concentration, no lines of laughter framing his once expressive eyes. No emotion period, a blank slate devoid of any feelings.

Everything he hoped for and everything he dreaded converging in one stark photograph.

Dean was out of Hell. Somehow he came back. How and why were shrouded in a mystery for another time, after Dean was by his side again, safe and secure.

A thousand questions left to ponder.

_When_ was the only answer available and _where._ It was so damn obvious, so stupid and careless. Why hadn't they considered the possibility? Why had they assumed the retrieval ritual hadn't worked because Dean hadn't appeared before them? Why didn't they think to check the house where he died? Look beyond the obvious before now?

_Why had they given up on Dean?_

Bobby kept apologizing, his own failure wearing at him.

Sam's words sought to soothe him, while he refused any comfort for himself.

"It doesn't matter now, Bobby. All that matters is Dean's safe, alive… I don't care how or why or anything else. I just want to bring him home. It's time for Dean to come home."

"Sam, we need to be smart about this. We don't know all the facts… We don't know if he'll be the same… if he'll still be our Dean."

"What are you saying?" Sam gasped out, his mind knowing the reality while his heart beat in total denial. If he believe hard enough it would prove true, _Dean would be fine._

Dean was always fine.

"Just don't go getting your hopes up too much. It's been _six_ months… then almost three weeks in that place. Let's just take it slow, do it right."

Sounding like a petulant child, unable or unwilling to hear any opposing arguments, Sam steadfastly snapped, "I want him out, Bobby."

"We'll get him out. I promise. But we do it right."

Anger and resentment and guilt wore at Sam and he funneled it in the only direction he had. "Bobby, this is _Dean_… This isn't just another job."

Immediately he regretted his harsh tone, his eyes flashing an instantaneous apology.

Bobby deflected the criticism, his own feelings cast aside for the sake of the younger man. Someone needed to stay level-headed and Sam… well, this was his brother and he was reacting from love not intellect.

Bobby's words familiar, the gentle nod of his head an echo of times past.

"Course not, he's family. And we take care of our own."

--

Dean was lying on a cold, white bed, his arms and legs strapped and immobilized with leather restraints. His left forearm was bandaged almost from his wrist to his elbow, the white bandage the only outward indication of injury.

He looked peaceful in slumber, the strong angles of his face just as perfect as before the hellhound ripped him apart. His pale skin a wax representation of who Dean Winchester used to be, back before the torment hijacked his life, back before his brother failed him and let the hellhounds drag him down into the pit. Back before he died.

With a soft gasp Sam reached out to touch him, his hand trembling as he came into contact with the warm, lightly freckled skin of his right forearm. His fingers fluttered down, skating across the expanse of skin until he grasped hold of his brother's hand, squeezing the fingers together too tightly as he gripped him. He leaned over and placed his forehead on the top of Dean's hand almost like a reverent benediction as tears ran down his cheeks, the moment so long awaited burying him in a sea of emotion.

His shoulders heaved as a gulp of air entered his lungs and he realized he'd stopped breathing the minute he'd seen Dean stretched out and silent before him; the moment of finally realizing the reality, that Dean was back, stripping him of the ability to breathe normally. He stood up to soak in the vision of his brother, his eyes scanning every visible inch. Dean was too thin, almost frail, his muscles withered by inactivity, his eyes sunken within dark shadows, but he was here… _alive_, and Sam had never seen a more beautiful sight.

He reached out his hand and gently touched the bandaged arm, expectantly watching Dean's face for any indication he was aware his brother was here, that he was no longer alone. The doctors said he was heavily sedated and wouldn't wake for at least four hours, but they didn't know Dean, didn't know the bond the brothers shared, that if it was even remotely possible Dean would wake up, probably with some smart-ass remark like 'What took you so long, dude?'.

Sam watched and waited with no reaction from his brother.

His voice barely registered, so low and solemn as he turned to Dr. Williams, "What happened to him? His arm… "

The doctor was strictly business, his deep voice brusque and succinct, "He had an episode."

Sam winced, eyes searching and concerned. "What are you saying? What exactly is an 'episode'?"

"He seemed to be improving. We assimilated him into the general community for short periods and he appeared to be handling it well."

"So what happened?"

"He's very ingenious… must be his military training. He made a weapon… "

Sam swallowed, his eyes blinking back the terror, his voice subtly cracking as he stood there waiting for some terrible truth. "He _hurt _someone?"

The doctor looked up and compassion filled his eyes as his head quirked to the side. "Mr. Hammett, he hurt _himself."_

"_What?_ How?" Sam gasped out.

"He sliced open his arm… used the blood to write a message on the wall of his room."

The tears were winning in this battle Sam was waging for control, filling his eyes and threatening to overflow the confines. "A message? What did it say?"

"Let me show you… We haven't been able to clean up the mess yet in all the confusion."

Sam hesitated, after finding Dean he didn't want to ever leave him again, especially without being able to gaze into his eyes, to connect with him and assure him he'd come. His hand gripped his brother's right forearm tighter, hoping the pressure would pull him from his slumber and force those expressive eyes to open, willing him back to consciousness.

"Mr. Hammett, I assure you he doesn't know you're here and he won't be waking anytime soon." The doctor offered a simple half-smile, his bedside manner lacking but he earnestly tried to reassure him regardless. "I really think you need to see this."

Sam nodded and reluctantly released Dean's arm with a gentle pat. Before moving to follow him he couldn't resist placing his hand on Dean's chest over his heart, feeling the shallow breathing beneath his palm and the faint thump of his heart beating steady in his chest. He closed his eyes and swallowed before turning and following the doctor out of the room.

They walked down a familiar hallway, long and sterile and stark. The click-clack of the doctor's patent leather shoes resonating within the white expanse of over-waxed floors. When they reached the end of the hallway the doctor pulled out a jangling set of keys and unlocked the double doors and they passed through, the rooms now more like prisons with small glass windows and heavy locks on the doors.

Toward the end of the hallway they stopped before a door, the sign to the left labeled John Doe, with the date of commitment beneath, Nov. 2, 2008. The keys again pulled out from the key-keeper on his belt loop and he unlocked the door.

Sam shuddered as he stood in the doorway looking in at the cold, barren, stark white room. A sinister looking bed stood in the middle of the room, leather cuffs lying open and waiting along the edge. He hesitated; nothing pleasant resided in this room, only pain and suffering. He felt the despair, the hopelessness, and he wanted to lash out at those that kept his brother locked up in such a desolate place.

"Mr. Hammett?"

The good doctor was waiting. He'd entered the room and was looking back at the wall adjacent to the door. Sam's eyes reflexively closed as he stepped through the threshold, turning to face where the doctor was looking. His heart faltered at the blood staining the wall… Dean's blood… _so much blood_, the lettering bold if shaky with faint trails of dripping blood making the scene something out of a horror flick.

One word was scrawled on the white expanse of wall… _Sammy._

"Mr. Hammett, do you know who this Sammy is?"

Sam was transfixed, mesmerized and horrified. What could possibly be going through Dean's mind to do this? What could possess him to hurt himself enough to bleed out this much blood? His mind drew him back to another time when Dean cut himself, smiling like it was nothing, a simple nick. _"Just chumming the water…"_

The doctor cleared his throat and insistently asked, "Mr. Hammett?"

"Huh?"

The doctor continued on after finally gaining his attention. "This _Sammy,_ if we could find him… We think he might be the key to unlocking your brother's mind."

"Me… "

"What?"

"I'm Sammy."

"I thought you said your name was Kirk?"

Sam's eyes flashed on the doctor, his mind quickly coming up with a story to explain his alias. "Ah… it is, I mean, I go by my middle name, Sam. Dean's always called me Sammy."

His mind took him back again to all the times he stubbornly attempted to correct his brother. _"It's Sam!" _And how Dean matched his stubbornness by steadfastly refusing to bend to his will, insistently calling him Sammy until he finally won the battle and Sam accepted he would always be Sammy in his brother's eyes, finally realizing with a contented grin that it was how it was meant to be.

Gordon had tried to call him Sammy that one time and he knew Dean delighted in his kid brother's response, smiling that sly, bemused smirk when Sam corrected the other hunter with an undeniable truth of their relationship. _"He's the only one who gets to call me that."_

Sam stayed deep in his thoughts, reflecting on a happier time until a rap at the door startled him out of the past as it opened and an orderly appeared, out of breath and expectant.

"Yes, Robert?" Dr. Williams inquired.

"The patient… he's awake."

That was all Sam needed to hear and his heart leaped. "Thank god." He turned and was halfway to the door as he spoke, "I need to see him."

"Mr. Hammett, you need to prepare yourself."

"For what?" he snapped.

"We don't know how he's going to react. He's been through a lot and… "

"He's my _brother_." The words said it all, everything that mattered summed up in three words. _He's my brother._ "Just look at that… " Sam forcefully waved at the blood crusted on the wall. "He's been waiting for me to come and get him and he's not gonna wait one second more."

The walk back to the medical wing seemed five times as long as the walk before. Sam's long legs strode out in determination to reach Dean as quickly as possible and he turned the corner with an expectant heart. He knew Dean would know him, feel immense relief that his brother had finally come, that he was safe at last.

He knew everything would be all right soon enough.

Sam moved too quickly, startling his brother in his haste to be by his side again, Dean flinching away, his gaze wide and wild. His expressive emerald eyes finally open, observing his brother back by his side in solidarity, but displaying a disturbing look of shock and fear that hurt Sam to his core.

"Dean… Oh, god, Dean. I'm sorry… I'm here, Dean. I'm here." Sam's voice was soft and tender, his misting eyes mimicking the concern of his voice, all his emotions playing out in relief and hope. "It's gonna be all right. I got you. I got you, big brother."

Dean stared at this vision before him, his eyes travelling down the long expanse to take in every inch of this person. He subtly shook, his insides trembling.

_You're not him. I know what you are. Don't you freaking touch me, you demonic bitch._

TBC

_Thanks for reading. Any and all comments are always appreciated. Take care, B.J._


	14. Failure is Not an Option

"_The first duty of love is to listen." _– Paul Tillich

Chapter Fourteen – Failure is Not an Option

Twelve hours prior

_Little Dean sat in his daddy's big recliner cradling his baby brother, his eyes intently watching his parents dance through the living room, laughing and kissing, swept up in all their passion and love. The classic rock playing on the radio their waltz as John twirled his beautiful wife across the floor before dipping her and then pulling her back into his strong arms and squeezing tight as he tenderly kissed her welcoming lips._

_Their love and passion imprinting joy on every second of the life they shared._

_Love embraced their days and passion filled their nights._

_Laughter was everywhere, infusing their lives with all the happiness and love the world would ever know._

_It was everything one could wish for… and so much more._

_All their son ever knew… ever desired._

_Their boy thrived within their happy home, the love his parents felt radiating out and filling their house to overflowing with total bliss, buffering their child within a loving comfort zone so warm and safe that he never felt the need for worry. _

_His life was perfect…_

_Storybook perfect._

_And then it abruptly ended one dark and terrible night._

_Fire._

_The world exploded out in a fireball and everything changed…_

_And it was never right again… _

_Mom gone. _

_Dad different._

_A boy's life forever altered…_

_Irrevocably shattered into a million jagged bits of glass grinding his insides into a bloody pulp every time the memories welled up._

_Drowning him in fear and dread…_

_Stealing his childhood in the blink of an eye and forcing him to become a man too soon, and much too young._

_Sending him down a treacherous road filled with peril._

_He saw the world as it truly was…_

_And he never felt safe again. _

_Sammy… just an innocent baby with no knowledge of his family's swift and total disintegration._

_His big brother a young boy determined to make it right._

_To keep what was left of his family intact… _

_To shield his baby brother from the knowledge of all the horrors he'd witnessed… all the evil lying in wait._

_To let him be a child for just a while longer…_

_To always keep him safe._

"_I promise, Daddy. I'll protect Sammy." A small voice, determined and brave 'cause that's what Mom would have wanted; eyes that held only a faint glimmer of fear, his true terrors pushed down and hidden behind a forced smile. "Don't worry, Dad… It'll be all right." A small hand resting on the father's shoulder which subtly shook from the strain of what they'd already lost and what they still stood to lose._

_A storybook tale that ended tragically before the final chapter and the 'Happily Ever After'._

_The Disney version hijacked by the Brothers Grimm._

"You can't protect him, Dean. He's dead."

"No… "

"_Yes..,_ you failed."

The brutal words cut into his alone time, his time to remember, when he escaped the cruelty of his real life and made up stories of happier times… the Disney version before the pain of his reality always intruded and stole the ending to his tale. He tried to ignore the words, harsh and unforgiving, tried to stay inside his mind, go back to the early chapters before the fire, before the pain. Music… laughter… dancing… twirling around and around and around, his little brother smiling up at him like he was special… the most important person in the whole, wide world. His parents, loving and perfect, making him believe it was so.

He wanted to hear the music, see them dancing, laughing, loving…

He longed to go back in time and rewrite history.

He needed to remember the happy times, but she wouldn't let him, shoving the fire and the heat into his thoughts, twisting the pain until it was _all._

"Oh, Dean… come on, sugar. This is _my_ time. Time to play!"

"NO!"

"Yes. You failed."

"No… please, no."

He closed his eyes to the memory, but it was there forever locked inside his head, his eyes pried open to the horrific sight no matter how hard he tried to forget.

He turned away from that horror to the horrors that surrounded him here… _here in Hell or wherever this hellhole was. _

_That's better._

He studied the mangled, deformed face of this demon, this thing that came to play.

They all looked the same. Ugly… disgusting… cruel…

He gathered every ounce of courage he possessed and gave it his best smirk, cocky and demanding, implicitly asking for retaliation. It felt good to show defiance… it let him feel in control again. He always paid, of course; but he could handle the pain.

Sometimes he wanted it… _like now._

It focused his mind and helped him forget.

He needed to forget.

"No forgetting this time, Dean. You failed and Sam is dead… for good. Lilith killed him… _remember?_ The last sight you witnessed there on earth. The final glorious image burnt into your pathetic little mind. White light… death… remember?"

"NO! I DON'T BELIEVE YOU!" He screamed the words even though he knew they were a lie, a falsehood he told himself to push the pain away. He tried his best to pretend, live in the fantasy, because the reality tore his heart in two, hurt worse than any pain these demons could inflict upon his body.

"You don't have to believe me. You saw. Remember? REMEMBER!"

"NO! _Please…_ " Tears pooled in a puddle of liquid green as his eyes squeezed tight to deny the pictures, the images burnt into his eyelids, forever present in his thoughts. Pictures that now haunted his days as well as his nights, bringing unbearable guilt and pain… the anguish feeding on his insides, licking him clean.

"Please _what?"_

"Just start. I'm ready. Please… find the blood. _Please_."

The torture was so much easier to bear. Easier than the thoughts that warped his mind, squeezed him dry of all hope, all his humanity… any essence that made him feel alive… that made him _want_ to live. Without Sammy there was nothing… _He was nothing_.

Empty and lost… _forgotten._

She was the most foul, intensely evil demon he'd encountered here. He knew she could bring the pain… help him forget. It was what she did best, the torture and the taunts.

She smiled a tight, twisted grin, her sinister eyes beaming from the torment she was inflicting. And it had only just begun… that much he knew. This was always the most fun for them, playing with the human's emotions, his pathetic little mind.

"No," she spat out.

"_What?_ Why not?"

"Too easy… this will _never_ be easy, Dean." She leaned into his personal space, her hot breath warming his cheek, inflicting a slight sunburn on the too pale skin. "You should know that."

"You call this easy?" he sneered.

It _was_ easier to smirk now, to glower at the thing with cocky bravado. To push and prod and hope it would surrender to its thirst for blood, for screams, for pain. That it would succumb to the need to torture and therefore give him what he craved, what he so desperately needed… a release, a reason to forget, a refuge from the memories.

"Nothing is ever easy, Dean. Not for you. You've always made it hard, haven't you?"

"Oh, god… not this again. Just cut the crap and _get on with it!"_

"So eager. Not.. quite.. yet."

Dean closed his eyes, angrily muttering under his breath, his fists clenched so tight he thought he might actually break a bone or at the very least strain a muscle, his nails in his palms drawing blood. His heart pounded in his chest like a bass drum and the image again flashed, vivid and crystal clear.

_Indisputable. _

_Undeniable._

_White light… _

_Sammy…_

_Death. _

_Failure._

"How does it feel to know it was all for nothing? That you're going to spend eternity burning in Hell and Sam is still dead?" She was circling around his bed again, taking slow deliberate steps, leaning in as she passed behind him, whispering in his ear with rancid breath. "I'm just curious… how _does_ that feel?"

Tears streamed from his shattered eyes, dampening his sheets as they ran down his cheeks and dripped below. He didn't want to believe… didn't want to know the truth. Denial was all he had left. His jaw clenched before it started to twitch and then tremble. His lips quivered and his mouth gasped out as he struggled to catch his breath. The panic shutting off his oxygen and he prayed he would simply cease to exist.

That it would all just end.

End now and forever be done.

He just wanted it to be over.

But that wasn't allowed and he knew it. No relief from the pain so he embraced it, setting his jaw and waiting for the first laceration to rip across his chest, tearing his flesh and freeing his mind. Hoping the blood would drown out the memory.

_It doesn't matter. _

_Not anymore._

_Not with Sammy gone._

He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the white ceiling.

"Dr. Masters, the patient seems quite agitated. Do you want to sedate him again?"

The pretty blond smiled. "No. In fact, I think we can remove his restraints. He'll settle down."

"Doctor? I don't mean to question, but… "

"WHAT?" She glared at the cowering nurse, who hung her head in response. "I'm in charge here, _right?"_

"Yes, yes, of course. As you wish."

The young man tensed and tried to scamper away, pulling against his bindings which held him in place as the nurse approached, his terror-filled eyes clearly envisioning all the demons he saw in his mind.

Whispering to him as she would a caged animal terrified of its captors, she attempted to soothe him, carefully removing the straps that held him down and releasing him, again allowing him full access to his solitary white room.

His wary eyes followed her as she hurriedly retreated to the door. She eased the door open and then closed it, looking though the small window as he sat on the edge of the bed rubbing at his wrists, his eyes darting about the room suspiciously eying the sparse contents. Sighing she walked away, hoping the new doctor knew what she was doing.

"I'm going to leave you now, Dean." The doctor smiled, stepping forward and brushing her hand across his leg as he sat tense on the bed expectantly watching her. "You be good."

He grimaced and pulled away, his right thigh on fire from the casual touch.

She laughed as she walked to the door and exited, the door clanking closed with a heavy thud reminiscent of a bank vault entombing all the money behind a foot of steel, the keys in the lock sealing his fate as the tumbler fell into place.

Trapped…

Suffocating within the sterile confines.

All alone in his white room.

It didn't take him long to pry off the buckle from the strap of the restraints or hone the metal side to a fine edge against the wheels of the bed. His ingenuity and survival skills quickly demonstrated like an Eagle Scout going for his last badge, his determination set as he held the newly sharpened object in his right hand, his thumb gliding over the edge to come away slick and red.

_Her_ words again whispering softly in his ear, _"He is coming."_

His lips turned up in a blissful smile as he gripped the heated metal in the palm of his hand.

_I know…_

He lifted his left arm and held it horizontally across his chest with his wrist up, the pale skin capturing his imagination and begging for color. He took in a slight breath and slid the sharpened edge deep into the tender flesh of his forearm in a long gash releasing the blood he craved. As the first drop fell, plummeting downward and landing with a silent plop against the waxed floor he sighed in relief, all his pent-up rage and guilt bleeding out against the white.

Acting quickly he used the make-shift blade to cut a section of his shirt up the seam and across before discarding the steel object which dropped to the floor with a loud clank, the strip of cloth still hanging by a thread. Panting from the adrenaline coursing through his veins he then wrapped his hand over the gaping wound as he moved to the opposite wall and pressed his bloody palm against the stark white paint, the red bold and striking.

When he had finished his task he retreated to the corner of the room that held the best view of his work. He slid to the floor, the wall supporting his back with his legs sprawled out before him in a haphazard manner. He finished ripping off the bottom portion of his shirt and wrapped the material around his arm in a make-shift bandage, applying pressure to the wound to stem the flow.

He rested his head back against the wall, taking deep, deliberate breaths. Through long, lush lashes that fluttered down over sleepy eyes he sat observing his masterpiece. The chant playing on a loop in his head growing ever stronger, _Sammy… Sammy… Sammy…_

His last thoughts were of music, dancing, laughter… visions of happier times playing in his head like home movies on an old projector, the participants youthful and carefree, oblivious to the horrors awaiting them.

Times that he knew would soon be revisited.

His family together at last.

He peacefully closed his eyes to sleep.

_I win._

--

Present time

"Your credentials are impeccable, Dr. Johnson, but you aren't on staff here at the hospital… We couldn't possibly… "

"Look, Dr. Williams, I'm not asking to take over his case. You'll still have your doctor of record. But I _know_ Dean, I just need to have access and be kept informed of all treatment options."

"As long as we're clear on the details."

"Doc, his brother could check him out of this hospital. We could take him home to South Dakota… "

"I don't think disrupting his treatment… "

"That's what I told Sam, but you need to work with us here."

"Dr. Johnson, the patient is in a very fragile state."

The words ground out, gravelly and gruff. "His name's Dean."

"Yes.., yes, of course, I didn't mean… " The doctor actually stammered, looking nervously to the floor before again locking eyes with his new colleague. "You need to have realistic expectations."

"He's hurting, I get it… but he's strong. He just needs time. You don't know him… what he's made of."

"I don't think you understand… " His words now came out forcefully, as he stared into the other doctor's eyes. "He tried to _kill_ himself."

"Not hardly," he scoffed, piercing eyes squinting as he shook his head in denial, his voice firm and sure. "Believe me, if Dean wanted to kill himself he'da finished the job."

"He bled out a considerable amount."

"Yeah? And he bandaged the wound. Doc, you don't _know_ my nephew. He was sending a message."

"By writing on a wall?" the doctor gasped out. "In his own blood?"

"It got your attention, didn't it?"

"You need to realize, your nephew's had a major setback. Cutting himself is a sign."

"I'd say… a sign he wants outta this place." The older man looked around, his eyes cast in sadness at the stark reality of this place. "Can't say as I blame him."

"Dr. Johnson, you of all people should recognize the danger he's in."

"Believe me… I _know_ the danger he's in."

"Well then, you'll want what's best for him. He hasn't talked much since they brought him in, but now he's stopped completely. Seeing his brother seems to have triggered a catatonic state." The doctor took a deep breath, his voice suddenly lower and more compassionate. "I'm not sure he's aware of what's going on around him."

"Well, then… " He fixed his stance and glared at the doctor. "How about we find out? I need some time with him… _alone_. I just might be able to reach him."

"By all means, but I want to be kept abreast of any changes. This is a courtesy, Dr. Johnson."

"And this is family, Dr. Williams."

--

Bobby had only been in a mental ward three times previously. The last time had been the easiest, dealing with a ghostly homicidal maniac. He was on a job, a supernatural haunting that was driving the patients to attack the staff and themselves. The body count escalated to four before he finished off the spirit and restored order… or at least put the doctor-guards back in control of the facility. The patients, well, they still weren't saved, but that was beyond the scope of what a hunter was capable of accomplishing.

The first two times he set foot in a psych hospital came years after Nam, visiting buddies that deteriorated after they came back from the war. Too many horrors still haunting them from a senseless, forgotten war, and too much anguish from an insensitive, uncaring world that didn't welcome them home with open arms; and for one, too much self-medicating that only impaired his thinking further and made the post-traumatic stress disorder both his friends suffered from even more debilitating.

Randy finally conquered his demons and made it back home after extensive therapy and the love and support of his devoted family; poor Al never recovered from the drugs pumped into his system, both his own doing and the docs who kept him medicated to make things easier. Al fell into that black hole and never climbed out, surrendering to the dark.

Bobby despised mental wards, hated seeing men lose control and become victims of the hell they were forced to face in a cruel and unjust world. After all these years he never expected the feelings to well up again, the nervous waiting and the dread, the not knowing if Dean would remember him or whether his outcome would mimic Randy's or Al's. If he was being honest, and Bobby was always brutally honest, a huge part of him expected Dean to not remember; after all, if he didn't react favorably to his own brother, the most important person in his life, than why should Bobby expect any different?

Still he hoped.

Dean was like a son to him and he wanted to make this right, bring him home and erase the past six-plus months of whatever torture Hell had inflicted. He wanted to rescue him from that nightmare along with the further indignities this place forced him to endure as he struggled to find his way back to the light.

Unfortunately, you don't always get what you wish for… especially in this messed-up world.

"I want the restraints off and then you leave, you got that?"

The male nurse, Tony, nodded and entered the room. Dean was strapped to the bed, had been laid out flat on his back all night, open and vulnerable. Bobby knew if any part of him was aware of his surroundings he'd hate being exposed like that; unable to defend himself, unable to reach under his pillow and feel the familiar hilt of his knife in his grip, denied his basic human rights. Restricted from the simple act of rolling over onto his stomach and scrunching the pillow between his hands to get comfortable, snorting out a sigh of contentment when he finally curled into a peaceful position and blissfully drifted off to sleep.

It was a ridiculous thought but under the circumstances, Dean coming back from the dead, it wasn't entirely out of line when Bobby doubted Dean had received a single night of restful sleep since he died over six months prior. No wonder his mind was fragmented, lost in the dark. _That was some serious sleep deprivation. _

_After all you've been through, Dean… after it all… I'm sorry, son. Sorry, we couldn't save you from this. Sorry we didn't find you sooner._

How could they treat a man like this? Like a thing with no rights? An animal trapped in a freak show. This was _Dean_ and he deserved better… all the unfortunates in this place did, but Bobby only had eyes for Dean, his long-time friend, the firstborn son of a fellow hunter, the son he never had until the Winchesters entered his life and welcomed him into their family, Dean embracing him as he would a father.

Dean _was_ family and he was coming home. Bobby would see to it.

Dean was awake when they entered the room, fixed eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, no response to the door unlocking or the footsteps that approached. No reaction when the restraints were unbuckled and fell off the side of the bed to dangle a foot from the floor. He simply laid there, tense and on edge but otherwise unresponsive.

"Dr. Williams said you could have an hour. I'll be back then," Tony informed him as he walked to the door to leave.

"Knock first," Bobby instructed with a stern look. He was already feeling the lack of control, the hopelessness places like this instilled in him, and he was determined to offer Dean as much safety as he could, buffering him as much as possible from the harsh treatment these places typically offered.

"You got it." The burly nurse smiled; a glimmer of respect in his eyes as he bolted the door.

Bobby walked to the bed, gazing with tender eyes wavering on the verge of tears as he got his first good look at Dean, at this broken warrior devastated from the last six months. He longed to touch him, pat his arm and tell him he was going to be all right. Hell, he wanted to wrap his arms around him in a bear hug and have those strong arms hug him back, but he resisted the urge, allowing Dean his space and instead settling into the lone chair pulled up by the side of the bed.

"Good to see you, boy. Been awhile… " Bobby grinned at the absurdity of this situation… small talk, casual but heartfelt, far from all he wanted to say, _do _for Dean. A voice in his head told him to take it slow… probably all the research he'd done back then, when his two buddies suffered the effects of a hard fought war for normalcy… for sanity. He waited for Dean to make the first move, tell him in not-so-many words what he needed, what would help.

Bobby settled in and started to talk. He prattled on for twenty minutes before Dean's left arm moved, tentatively checking his range of motion. Another ten passed before he slowly rose; sitting on the side of the bed as he gingerly rubbed at his raw wrists, staring out into space, almost robotic in his movements. It took another five before Bobby caught his eyes wandering over to observe the hunter masquerading as a doctor.

The old Dean would delight in the ruse, comment about how spiffy he looked in his cheap grey suit, his hair slicked back with his trucker cap abandoned on the dresser back at the motel. Bobby longed to hear that voice, the smirk in his tone as he razzed his old friend. He waited and watched for the familiar spark that lit up Dean's eyes displaying his playful nature still present even after facing all he'd suffered in his life.

This Dean never registered anything more than casual interest, refusing to acknowledge another presence in the room.

Bobby quietly chatted with him, telling tales of Rumsfeld and coon hunting and old-fashioned ice cream churned out by the weary muscles of two brothers taking turns cranking the stiff handle on his old ice cream maker on that hot summer day in '90 when the boys stayed the entire summer. The rhythm of his voice lulling the young man into a peaceful calm, providing a safety he'd been missing. The older man wasn't saying anything important, but the ease with which he said it made all the difference. Even so, Dean never responded.

"Dean? I'm thinkin' that maybe you're in there, you just don't wanna talk. Is that it?"

No reaction came, so Bobby continued, carrying on the conversation on his own.

"Your daddy said that's how you reacted after your mom died. You had him pretty worried back then." Bobby shifted, staying close by, just at the edge of Dean's personal space but not intruding any closer. "You got me and Sam pretty worried now." Bobby took a deep breath. "Son, can you give me somethin'? Anything?"

A knock sounded at the door and Bobby looked at the window to see the nurse gazing in. He closed his eyes and sighed, opening them again to offer one final glance at Dean before he motioned with his hand to enter.

Dean was still sitting on the edge of the bed staring blankly into space as Bobby crossed the floor of the white room to leave, no indication he was cognizant of his visitor or his surroundings.

Bobby turned at the door and offered one final comment, his voice clenched in deep emotion. "Dean… I'll be back, son. You hold on."

--

_Stay…_

_Don't surrender to that black void and leave me._

_Don't you dare let the darkness win._

_I need you…_

_So close…_

_So damn close._

_You fought your way back._

_Somehow you escaped Hell._

_You're here._

_So close…_

_I touched you, held your hand._

_Felt the warmth of your skin._

_Don't you leave me now…_

_Don't you do that._

_I need you…_

_I need you, big brother._

_I need you to come back to me._

_Please, Dean… come back._

_Please…_

"Sam… Sam?"

He startled on the bed, drawn eyes slowly opening.

"Sam… you dreaming?"

Sam looked at the older man, his vision blurring from the moisture filling his eyes, his throat constricting as he blinked back the tears. "Dean… I was dreaming of Dean."

Bobby's brows furrowed, the lines in his forehead more pronounced as he concentrated and rasped out, "What about Dean?"

Silence was his initial response while Sam tried to compose himself, all his emotions wearing him down and making him shudder through the intense feelings of loss, hope and rejection. He nervously fidgeted with his hands, finally wrapping his arms around his chest and digging painfully into his sides. "How lost he is… how we've found him and he's still not… _here_."

Bobby didn't know what to say, one of the rare occasions when he was speechless since it had already been said, countless times over too many months. The conversation covered over the course of myriad scenarios with no resolution. At least not yet. "Sam… "

The word sounded empty and hollow to Sam, no meaning to it without Dean's inflection, without his brother's familiar smirk to back it up and make it matter.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched in his lap, his shoulders stooped over and dejected. "Bobby, he couldn't hear me. He didn't know me."

"He will."

Sam looked up with _those_ eyes, the wide-open hurt eyes that Dean teased him about insufferably when they were teens, referring to them as 'Sammy's puppy-dog eyes'. The image fit, you sure as hell wouldn't want to discipline any pathetic, sad-sack of a dog that displayed those eyes, even if it did eat your favorite pair of shoes. Dean sure as hell never could deny those eyes… _but that was before_.

Sam's voice broke as his spirit had appeared broken and he spoke, "You sure? 'Cause, the look in his eyes… You didn't see it. He was scared of me, Bobby… _Scared!"_

"I know, boy, but you need to hang tough. He'll come around." Bobby stared straight into Sam's eyes, laying it all on the line, hard yet true. "Sam, he's just been through _Hell…_ he needs time."

"But I'm his _brother_, Bobby. Dean would never forget _me_… he wouldn't." His voice cracked and his bottom lip trembled as his nose dripped, the moisture wiped away with a quick swipe of the back of his hand. His face finally dissolving into desperate tears as his chin trembled from all the pressures battering him down.

"He's not himself, Sam. You need to give him time."

"Time? Bobby, I've been looking for him for six months and now he's here… right here and it still isn't right. How can he not know me?"

"Sam, he's confused, he's scared… let me help him sort it all out."

"I need to see him again." Sam's voice now displayed confidence and determination, sure and set, with his mind made up. "I can get through to him… I know I can."

"Sam… you scared the crap outta him. I don't know why, but you said yourself he went ballistic when he saw you. You can't force this… it'll only hurt him more and I know you don't want that."

"But Bobby… "

"Sam, this ain't about _you_. This is about _Dean_." Bobby moved forward until he was standing directly before Sam, his eyes fierce and determined, his voice hard. "He's lost. Boy, you know your brother would never distance himself from you if he was in his right mind."

"But, Bobby… "

"Sam, no buts. You let this be until Dean's ready. If I can find the old Dean, he'll be there for you… It's just gonna take time. Can you give 'em that? Give him time to find himself?"

"What choice do I have?" Sam bitterly replied, stoically trying to compose himself, the Winchester determination showing in his eyes, fierce and steady again.

"It'll be all right, Sam. I promise."

"How do you _know_, Bobby? After what he's been through… "

"Sam.., he's _Dean._ Ain't no one stronger. You hold on to that."

--

Dr. Johnson came back to see his nephew later that night. Dean sat up and responded to his presence sooner this time. Hesitant eyes followed his every move, still no expression on his face, still no words uttered.

Only silent eyes watching and waiting.

_What are you waiting for, Dean? What will break through that wall of yours?_

Bobby talked about family and duty, leaving out the specifics of the family business and all that their job entailed. Then he talked about the car, that black beauty that John and then Dean held in such high regard.

"The first time you ever worked on the car was at the yard. John was perplexed… " Bobby smiled at the memory. "Couldn't figure out what was wrong with her, and then you… Hell, you musta only been ten or so and you wandered up and told your daddy what was wrong. Just like that! It was so simple that ol' John was looking in the wrong direction, using all his expertise to diagnose a problem that a kid saw right through. That was quite a moment there, Dean. Never saw John so proud as when he knew you were right." Bobby rubbed at his beard, his eyes twinkling as the good feelings swept over him. "You were beaming, Dean. First time I ever saw you smile that big. Hell, you puffed up like a balloon ready to pop. Thought we'd never get that smile off your face. So pleased your dad noticed you… That's when I knew you were a real mechanic, your daddy did too."

Dean was looking in his direction, observing him more closely but still his eyes never revealed what he was thinking. His eyes closed off and silent, not speaking the volumes they normally expressed. Those sensitive eyes almost on the verge of shutting down, but his heart was beating, he was alive and right here, close enough to touch… it was just a matter of time, Bobby was sure of that. Bobby took comfort that at least they stared in his direction instead of towards the white walls.

"Dean, you need to know your daddy was always proud of you. John never said much, I know that. Somehow he didn't want to make you weak. Didn't want you to need it. Knew it came so rare in life and that you couldn't expect it. Maybe he should have told you more… I dunno. But I think you knew." Bobby offered a hesitant smile. "I _hope_ you did. I think you saw it in the looks he gave you on occasion. He _was_ proud of you for everything you did, for how you protected Sammy. You _did _that… and you were just a kid yourself."

Dean shifted on the bed when he mentioned Sammy and when Bobby looked up he saw a tear, one lone tear break free from the moisture building in his emerald eyes. In that moment his eyes revealed so much emotion, love and hope struggling against the hurt and confusion. That single tear escaping the control of the soldier and running along his nose to wet the corner of his mouth, the first fissure to appear in his protective wall.

Bobby gasped at the sight. He rose from his chair and stood before him, willing him to speak, his heart constricting from the desperate hope. Dean's lips trembled and Bobby thought it was going to happen, but then his entire body sunk back on the bed as he released a soft sigh and his face returned to that solemn mask, only his eyes offering any glimpse of the man trapped within.

Bobby bit back his own tears, his hands anxiously rubbing the sides of his legs as he forced himself to stay steady. His voice was reassuring and sincere when he finally spoke, "That's progress, boy… that's what they call a first step."

The wheels in Bobby's mind were grinding as he considered his next move, how to pull Dean back from the brink and reclaim him. He made a bold decision but it felt right, slowly he brought his hand up to Dean's face, letting him observe his actions so he wouldn't be startled and then he reached out and tenderly touched his cheek, soft and gentle as his calloused hand allowed and his thumb wiped the moisture from the tear's track. Dean didn't flinch away.

_That's good, Dean… that's real good._

Bobby continued to talk but Dean's eyes seemed to wander more and more, somehow drifting off again, heading away from his family instead of towards it. Bobby tried to change topics but nothing seemed to work, maybe Dean was just tired, maybe it was too much, too soon.

Maybe he'd never find his way back to the light.

_No, dammit! That ain't gonna happen._

"I'll be back, son. I'll be right back."

--

Dr. Williams had gone home for the day, but Bobby found Tony, the burly nurse that escorted him to his first visit. The man had a marine tattoo on his left forearm and Bobby rightly surmised he'd had his share of experiences with post-war traumas. It may have been against the rules without the express consent of Dr. Williams or the doctor in charge of Dean's case, Dr. Masters, but Bobby knew how to coerce people and Tony was open to breaking the rules for a good cause, especially since the man requesting the favor was family and also a knowledgeable doctor. He intrinsically trusted Bobby to act in the best interests of his nephew and Bobby's confidence and conviction convinced him this was the right thing to do so he grabbed the keys from the nurse's station and let the doctor into the property room.

Dean's clothes were of no importance, except Bobby got the first sight of how rumpled he must have appeared when they first discovered him, no wonder he was classified as homeless. It was disturbing to see the rags he was found in, the blood on the ripped t-shirt, the obvious distress to the rancid jeans. Clothes Dean would never want back, clothes that should have been put in the incinerator long ago in an effort to erase the horrors they reflected.

Bobby shuddered as he disposed of the clothes, stuffing them down into the large garbage can sitting to the side. He'd been spared seeing Dean's final moments on earth, saved from the images Sam dreamt of every night since it happened. It had been hard enough to witness the aftermath, Dean's torn body covered in blood and lying still on the floor, his once expressive green eyes glassy and fixed. His face the only part of him not ripped apart, the perfect mask of Dean Winchester marred only by a splattering of blood droplets. The image of that was enough to haunt Bobby's nights, but that was the past. Dean was back, miraculously back, but he wasn't all the way yet. He still had miles to go before he made his way home.

The large manila envelope was what Bobby had been looking for. It was in the same box as the clothes, buried down at the bottom. He opened it and gazed inside, sighing with relief as he poured the sparse contents onto the counter: one silver ring, one sculpted black bracelet, and one golden amulet on a leather rope. The black watch Dean had been wearing was broken, the glass shattered and the time fixed at 12:01. One minute of torment and it had been over. Doesn't sound like a long time, but when you are dying it's an eternity. When you have a hellhound tearing you apart it is more than enough time.

And that was only the beginning.

The three items of jewelry had not offered any help in identifying the broken man found disoriented and uncommunicative in that suburban house, even though they held the key to who Dean Winchester truly was. There were no initials inscribed into the metal, no hallmarks to track down. Nothing to differentiate these articles from any number of pieces of costume jewelry offered for sale daily on ebay.

But they were special to Dean, besides his car and his leather jacket the only possessions that meant anything to the man. Each harboring their own story of whence they came and what they meant. Bobby grasped hold of the leather rope and brought the glistening amulet up to eye level. It twirled in the glow of the overhead lights, dancing on the end of the rope.

He smiled as he flicked the charm up into his palm and wrapped his hand around it.

TBC

_Thank you again for the wonderful response to this story. I apologize for the late updates, one of the reasons I hate WIPs… sometimes the chapters come easily and other times they don't. I had hoped to get Dean and Sam closer together in this chapter, but Dean wouldn't cooperate. Can't blame the boy, he is still trying to cope. Next three chapters are already started but my muse is still attempting to work out all the fine points. Thanks for reading, any reviews would be appreciated. Take care, B.J._


	15. Angels Are Watching Over You

"_Man and nature belong together in their created glory - in their tragedy and in their salvation." – _Paul Tillich

Chapter Fifteen – Angels Are Watching Over You

"Mommy, what's that?" The young boy pointed at the stack of paint samples she held in her hand.

She sat down on the floor beside him so she could be at his level, eye to eye while they talked.

"_We_ are going to paint your room."

"We _are?" _he asked, his small voice filled with childlike wonder.

"Yes, we are," she replied with a soft smile, her eyes wrapping her young son up in waves of love. "Your baby brother got his nursery painted and now it's _your_ turn."

"Really?"

"Really! So, what will it be?"

"I get to choose?" the boy exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the prospect.

"Uh-huh… whatever you want."

"I want the sky!" he blurted out.

"The sky?" She laughed, melodic and sweet like a lullaby while her eyes sparkled with love and pride. She looked like an angel who belonged up in the sky surrounded by clouds and diamonds… and emeralds and sapphires and rubies. Her pride in her precious boy a bejeweled rainbow with every treasured gem ever discovered arching over his life as a symbol of protection while her love embraced him with silken angel wings wrapped snug around his shoulders to shield him from the coming storm.

Her son's enthusiasm knew no bounds, joyously filling him with life and abandon as he practically danced about his room, his arms thrown wide as if he could embrace the universe. "Yeah! And clouds! Mommy, I want clouds, up on the roof and on the walls… lots and lots of clouds."

"On the roof it is! And what else, honey? Anything you want." Her eyes shimmered as she soaked up this special moment, time for just the two of them, to treasure the pleasures youth brought.

The boy hesitated, his eyes luminous, the emerald twinkling within and illuminating his cherub face. He turned serious as his brows furrowed in deep concentration before his chipper voice piped up, "Can I have the sun so it's never _ever_ night?"

She instinctively reached out to soothe him, her hand fluttering through his long blond bangs, pushing them back to reveal his perfect face, huge expressive eyes, baby-soft skin with a smattering of freckles dusting his nose, and bee-stung lips turned up in the sweetest smile a boy ever possessed. A smile that made her heart rejoice at least a hundred times each day as his inner beauty lit up her world. She tenderly asked him, "Are you afraid of the dark, love?"

"Afraid? No… I'm not afraid of _anything_." The voice sure and steady as her son stood tall, all three and a half feet of him, his sweet face showing an undeniable fortitude as his jaw set and his eyes took on a fierce determination as he earnestly responded, "I'm strong. Daddy says so." His eyes suddenly turned tender again, so open and honest, so pure and untarnished, _her little boy,_ as his low voice revealed his secret fear, "Mommy, I just don't want to be alone and when it's dark I feel alone." His heartfelt confession seemed to weigh on him for a second before his enthusiasm peaked as he excitedly pleaded with her, "Can Sammy stay with me?"

His mom's voice was gentle as she reassured him, "Maybe when he's older. For now, he needs to sleep in his nursery."

Her son rolled the thought around in his head, his eyes downcast as he worried his bottom lip while he processed what she'd said. His voice turned hopeful as he pursued his questioning, "But when he's older? Then we'll always be together?"

She mussed his hair with a gentle swipe of her hand. "Yes, when he's older. The two of you will be so close. You're gonna be the bestest big brother ever."

"And Sammy's the bestest little brother ever and ever and ever…. And we're _always_ gonna be together!" His joy was infectious as his entire face lit up at the promise.

She softly hummed as she wove her fingers through his silky blond hair, so smooth and soft to her touch. He grinned at the gentle caress, lifting his head to move into her hand, his radiant smile the smile of an angel, perfect and pure.

Something caught his attention though and his eyes shifted, his gaze taken over by an image barely visible in the upper-most corner of his room.

"Mommy, what's that… there in the corner?"

"What, honey?"

"That… there."

She looked up and followed his small hand extended and open, pointing upwards toward the corner of his room right below the ceiling. She reverently paused as she studied the shape of her son's hand, the index finger pointing while his other fingers curved under just so, perfectly matching the outstretched hand of God from Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel. Her eyes drew wide at the vision, the picture before her profoundly touching as it froze for an instant within her sight. A comforting wave of warmth washed over her before she dismissed it as an odd side-effect from that art history course she was auditing at the community college; but she smiled for that brief moment, enjoying the perfect beauty of God's greatest gift to them before she shook off the feeling and followed his small hand to where he was pointing, at an image imprinted onto the paint, almost concealed by a shadow on the wall. She softly whispered as she leaned in, pushing his long bangs back again and tenderly kissing his forehead, "Oh, _that?_ Love, that's your angel. Remember I told you angels were watching over you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, that's _your_ angel."

"_My angel?_" his voice again filled with wonder.

"Your very own… " She caressed his cheek, cooing into his ear in a breathless whisper. "Your angel will always protect you… _always, _for ever and ever… I promise."

He wrapped his arms around her in a hug, his cheek resting against hers, and he spoke so low she barely heard him, a mere whisper. "I'm gonna call him Sammy."

She chuckled, her voice tender and sweet, "But Sammy's your brother's name."

He pulled back from her embrace and gazed into her eyes, his face beaming with angelic joy, the logic perfectly formed in his mind. "Uh-huh. I'm always gonna look after Sammy and my angel, Sammy, will always look after me."

_My angel, Sammy…_

_My angel._

_My Sammy._

His eyes watered, a single tear escaping the corner and running wet along his nose. He didn't wipe it away, he didn't move; he couldn't move, bound like he was to his bed but he wouldn't have moved even if he could. He laid there waiting; still, like a statue, not giving anything away. Silent. Wrapped up deep within himself.

"He hasn't said anything?"

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but he didn't look, that would give too much away. His eyes stayed fixed on the white ceiling, but the hairs on his neck stood on alert… something was going on. Something was different.

Footsteps approached and he heard a chair being dragged across the floor. His space was being invaded again but he never twitched. _Give them nothing… silent… just ignore them and they'll leave you alone. _

_I just want to be left alone._

He felt the restraints slip away, heard them clank against the sides of the bed as they dropped. He was glad to be released but he didn't move… _not yet_.

"Dean… It's Bobby. Son?"

He tensed. He waited… hoped they'd go away. He wasn't in the mood to suffer their scrutiny. He didn't want their eyes on him… _almost as bad as their hands. God, don't let them touch me. Not that… not now._

Footsteps again, growing fainter… disappearing… _gone… good! _

The chair moved again, a low grunt and a slap of hands against something soft as someone sat down… right next to him. He could feel the body heat, the intense eyes upon him, boring a hole through him… trying to reach inside and take away his soul.

_Don't look at me. Stop… go away. Nothing, I'll give you nothing._

"Dean, I know you're in there… somewhere. You're not alone, boy. We're here."

_God, who is this? What new trick is this? What game are they playing now?_

Somehow he remembered the voice, low and gravelly, but he couldn't place where he knew it from. He just did. The man talked and talked and talked. Nonsense, random thoughts… words of kindness and hope. Words that brought back pleasant memories like before the fire. Stories, diversions, just like the tales he made up in his head.

He listened to this man. He liked the cadence of his voice, the gentle, melodic rhythm of it. He didn't know who the man was, but somehow he didn't fear him. He wasn't a demon.., _he could tell._

There was something familiar… _calming._

He tried to move his left arm, sliding it along the scratchy sheets until it dipped over the side. He gripped at the side of the bed, tentative and unsure, fingers flexing as he felt his way. He waited for someone to grab him, force him back into position, jab the needles in again, but nothing happened. The man continued to talk, no change to indicate he cared whether he moved or not. Nothing to show he even noticed except for perhaps a slight pause before the talk resumed. Hesitantly he sat up, his wrists rubbed raw from his fights with the restraints, the skin red and irritated. He massaged the aches away, flexing his hands by making a fist and then releasing it, one and then the other, slow and deliberate.

His eyes slowly started to roam around his room. Nothing to look at, not really. Everything was white, sterile, boring. Simple and plain, the same as before and then he saw it. His eyes narrowed as he tried to take in the shape, make out the form. Up in the corner of his room, just inches below the ceiling something was there in the shadows. Something looking down at him, something familiar.

"Whatcha got there, Dean? You see somethin'?"

The man intruded into his space, his field of vision now blocked. He shuddered at the close proximity, tensing from the concern in the stranger's voice. He didn't need him here, didn't need his concern or interest. He only wanted to be left alone.

He stared at the man, their eyes meeting in silent communication, except he wasn't talking, wouldn't surrender that easily. If he stayed in his head he was in control. They couldn't hurt him there… no matter what they did to his body. His head belonged to him, his mind offering him his only sanctuary deep within the passageways. It was where _she_ existed, in his thoughts, standing firm by his side when he needed her.

Sometimes, not often anymore, but when he most felt the need, he heard the boy. Laughing and giggling, a name he didn't recognize spoken with love… _Dean_. When he heard the boy's voice he wanted to answer, he longed to draw closer to him. If he squeezed his eyes closed and concentrated really hard he could make him out, off in the distance always running away from him now but still within his field of vision. He tried to follow, keep up as the boy showed him the way out, but his legs were uncooperative, wobbly and weak, and the distance between them seemed to broaden. He worried that if he lost sight of him, behind an outcropping or beyond the horizon, he'd never find him again. The boy would be forever lost in the twisting maze and he'd finally lose himself, succumb to the darkness and never find his way back to the light.

He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, shutting out all distractions and concentrated on not getting lost.

Time shifted in and out of focus, spanning the winds of change. This same man came back again and again; silently observing him before the litany of talk again swept over him, words flowing like a river of random stories, disturbing his concentration, diverting his attention. He wouldn't have minded except he needed to focus on the boy.

When the man left again he relaxed further into the moment, alone with his thoughts.

His thoughts drifted to his white room and how different it would look when she finished: sky blue walls, clouds on the ceiling, the sun shining down. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the sun, felt the warmth of its heated rays against his skin. He squinted into the bright lights on the ceiling and his room fell away, the walls simply vanishing as fresh air filled his lungs, a gentle breeze blew across his face and he sucked in the sweet smells of spring that greeted him as he stepped outside.

His bare feet shuffled through the grass, green and lush, and there before him was a bed of flowers… daisies. _Mom's favorite._ He reached down to pluck one and held it out as an offering. He laughed as she curtsied and took her son's gift, her hand brushing against his and that simple touch brought joy to his heart and a smile to his lips. She then reached up and placed her palms on either side of his face, the warmth intoxicating and he dissolved into his need. She moved closer and pulled him down to her placing a soft kiss against his forehead before she whispered in his ear, her cheek so soft against the stubble on his chin. _"You're safe now, Dean. Trust in your family. I told you they would come."_

He didn't have time to process the love she brought, the feelings so real and true; he knew somewhere in his heart that she was saying goodbye and he panicked. He didn't want her to go, he needed her. He blinked back his tears, his heart confused and unsettled, desperate to hold on to what he'd found. He didn't want to leave the comfort of his head; he didn't want to lose the love he'd recaptured. He could hide inside his head; duck back behind the partitions and go deep into the caverns. Evil couldn't find him there, too many hidden corridors, too many dark crevices. Even he didn't know where all the passages led.

He closed his eyes and savored the moment, her love filling his empty heart and giving him the peace he so desperately desired. He felt her hands slip away and he opened his eyes to his white room. Alone, empty… deathly still.

He anxiously sought her out, hoping she had lingered and not yet left. His voice was hoarse from misuse but he pleaded out into the nothingness, frantic to keep her near, "Mom, please, don't leave me. I need you."

"_I'll always be with you, Dean. But you have a job to do, you can't stay here. Go on… I love you, Dean. I'll always love you."_

He strained to see her, hoping he could catch one last glimpse before she disappeared, but she was gone, vanished into thin air. All he saw was the stark white expanse of his room. He reached up and touched his cheek, the warmth from her hand still there and his eyes closed as a single tear rolled down his cheek wetting the tips of his fingers. "I love you, Mom."

He startled as his door opened, the man returning, a manila envelope clutched tight in his hands as he entered the room.

He couldn't help his curiosity as his eyes followed the man as he crossed the distance to stand before him. He silently sat observing him as the man held the envelope inches before him; he was intrigued by the envelope but it was the man's hands that captured his attention. With a mix of sunburned skin and faded freckles the hands held a ruddy complexion. Overall they were large and calloused while the fingers seemed short and a bit chunky, but they were good hands. He was captivated by these hands, kind hands beneath a rough exterior.

This was a good man; he could tell. He'd seen a lot of hands over the time he'd been lost, hands that hurt him and made him bleed. Hands that made him coil back in fear and panic awaiting the coming blows. These were hands that would never hurt him, not like all the others that had come before.

The man turned the envelope over in his hands before he opened it, pouring the contents onto the open spot beside him on his bed. The light danced off the metal objects and he narrowed his eyes in concentration as his heart stirred; his mind racing with more questions as to how he knew these objects: gold and silver and leather. _So familiar._

The man's voice was soothing, rumbling low like the engine of a fine-tuned car. He saw a flash of black, sleek and long, shiny with chrome wheels spinning in a silver circle. He felt a connection to the image, the exhilaration of the open road, blacktop stretched out before him; but just as quickly it faded from his thoughts, the touch of the man's hands lifting his right hand stealing all focus. He surprised even himself that he didn't jerk away, the contact not painful or even unpleasant, the calloused fingers so tentative and gentle as they held him, hesitant but comforting, his hand resting gentle on top of the man's. He relaxed and didn't fight it. Then he felt the cool metal slide down his ring finger and it felt right. He glanced at his hand and wondered why he hadn't noticed before that it was gone. His thumb slid along the smooth surface on the underside, getting reacquainted to the feel of the silver.

He honestly didn't mind this man touching him, just gentle brushes, it didn't burn or hurt like the others, instead it felt so familiar, so welcome like a hidden part of him longed to be touched, caressed and cared for. He knew not to get used to it. This man would leave, _everyone leaves… Sooner or later, everyone's going to leave me. You… Dad… Hell, I did everything he wanted and still he left me… _

He shuddered as a wave of memory rolled through his gut and up through his chest, lodging in his throat for a second and shutting off his air supply. He choked back a sob… _Mom left me. _He audibly gasped, tears again welling as his stoic eyes dissolved in need, frantically flashing the crippling pain of all he'd endured.

"Dean? You okay? I'm here, kiddo, Bobby's here."

He didn't know why that made the terror back off, but it did. The panic left him as he latched on to the presence of this man and he was again able to breathe, in and out… in and out. He'd felt so alone and scared, so cut off, so lost and adrift in a sea of pain, but this man was here… _Bobby's here._

_Somehow that made it better._

He looked up and followed the man's motions. The man held on to his hand, lifting it up until his arm gently rose before placing some sort of bracelet on his wrist. It was stiff and a bit rough, but it too felt like it was finding its way back home, like it belonged there and he didn't know why he'd never before noticed it was missing.

Lastly, the man locked his gaze upon him and nodded with a slight smile, his eyes twinkling and reassuring as he slowly placed the leather necklace over his head. Those large hands grazed the back of his head, mussing his short hair, not that he even thought of how his hair stood out at all angles now, as this Bobby finished returning the necklace to where it rightly belonged.

It was the thump as the charm hit his chest that drew out the memories, the weight taking him back to all the horrors of that place, drawing out both the terror and the comfort. How the amulet kept him connected to his brother when he thought the pain they inflicted upon him would kill him… or make him wish with every fiber of his being that he were dead. The only comfort through it all was knowing that Sammy was near. That Sammy cared… _that Sammy was coming._

His hand immediately found the charm, caressing it between his fingers and holding it tight in his grip. His eyes rose to look upon this man, a shy glance beneath long lashes, still unwilling to offer more. Still watching and waiting… but slowly finding trust in this man.

It seemed to please the man who then placed his hand on his shoulder in a deliberate but slow move, ready to back away in an instant if the movement caused any panic. A firm grip and a slight squeeze, just enough to register.

_It felt good._

"That's right, Dean. You never took that off, not since the Christmas Sammy gave it to you. Do you remember?"

His eyes rose and he studied the man, a slight glimmer of recognition pestering his brain, like a long-forgotten song that starts with just the melody and you can't quite place it; the words escaping you but once the music starts it keeps playing on a loop in your head and you find yourself humming along, lost in a carefree moment.

He didn't know this man. Couldn't remember him… _not quite yet_, but it seemed right that he was here, comforting and familiar.

"Dr. Johnson?"

He jumped as a strange voice called out. He'd been sloppy, hadn't noticed someone else was in his room. He'd let these meager good feelings distract him from his vigil. He fixed his eyes and regained his composure, his breathing returning to the shallow gasps that revealed nothing. _Give them nothing. _He checked himself out of the room and went back to his head.

Bobby was intently watching Dean, his mind trying to decipher what he was witnessing, how the light almost returned to Dean's eyes, an interest showing for the briefest moment before the eyes darkened and the broken boy returned. He'd almost reached him, _almost. _He was sure of it.

"What? Can't you see I'm busy?" he distractedly replied. His mind still focused on the issue at hand… _Dean._

"Your nephew… the _other_ nephew is here. Insists on seeing you."

Bobby hesitated, torn between two men who needed him. Sam had been researching, trying to keep busy while Bobby visited with his brother. He either found something or he simply couldn't stand to stay away any longer. Either way, Bobby needed to see him before he did something extreme.

These Winchesters were always unpredictable, mostly in a good way, clever and ingenious in their fights with evil; but when one of their own was in danger they tended to have tunnel vision and leap before they thought. Hell, John and Dean's demon deals were proof enough of that statement, always willing to sacrifice themselves for another.

Sam had been pushed to his limit when Dean died; having him back and still being separated was agony for him. Sam understandably felt he was failing his brother yet again by not swooping in and rescuing him from this sterile white prison. He may have felt it, but that didn't mean it was true. This was for the best, Bobby was sure of that; they needed to let Dean find his own way back to them, forcing him before he was ready would be just as cruel as what he'd already faced.

_Time…_ he needed time.

Bobby certainly had his hands full with these Winchesters. He offered final comfort to one brother as he prepared to go to the other.

"Dean… your brother's here… _Sammy's _here. He's anxious to see you again, but I need to go check on him and maybe later, you'd like him to visit you. Would you like that, Dean? Would you like to see Sammy again?"

Dean stared at him with blank eyes. Bobby thought he saw a flicker of the old Dean spark every time he said the word 'Sammy' but maybe it was all wishful thinking. He hoped it wasn't, but only time would tell.

_Sammy? Is this a trick? What game are you playing now? Sammy's dead… I saw him die._

--

Sam was pacing in the waiting room, nervously tapping his hands against the sides of his long legs, his mouth twisting as he mumbled to himself, all his pent-up hopes and fears colliding with the uncertainty of Dean's condition. He so wanted to see his brother, tell him it was going to be okay, tell him he was there to support him however he needed him. It was torture not being able to visit him, but Bobby had insisted on taking things slow. _Torture… oh, god… Dean._

Bobby was right… He _was_. They needed to give Dean time… take it slow.

_Like Dean ever took anything slow? Dean wouldn't wait around for permission to see me. Dean would be barreling into the psyche ward and physically dragging my ass out of there._

_But then…_

_Dean wouldn't have let me go… _

Sam shook as the painful memories wracked his body and soul.

_Dean __didn't__ let me go._

_That's the whole reason we're in this mess… _

_Why Dean's suffered. _

_All because of me._

_My fault._

Sam grasped his head, his fingers lacing through his long bangs as he shuddered through the guilt, his head pounding from the unrelenting pressure of not being able to fix this.

He trusted Bobby, always had, and he tried to believe this _was_ for the best, the only reasonable course they had based on Dean's fragile state. He trembled every time he pictured Dean's look of terror when he first opened his eyes and saw his brother standing before him. That moment was like a dagger piercing his heart, seeing how it drove Dean frantic trying to get away from him. How his eyes flashed with the same hatred he'd previously reserved for the foulest evil of the world as he inflicted a deadly blow.

Dean not only feared him, he _hated_ him. Hated him like he did the demons that terrorized him… that did unspeakable things to him for the past six months.

_Fragile…_ Bobby said he was broken, confused… lost. _But he's still Dean… I know he is._

Just the thought of Dean being fragile made his blood boil, to think what those animals must have done to him. Then it made him tremble in regret, so sorry that he hadn't saved him like he'd promised… that he _let_ this happen to Dean. It was a vicious cycle, the pain and the regret, swirling in a loop through his consciousness, consuming every thought.

Dean had always been a rock. Even facing down Hell, he'd never waivered. Even when the end came, it was Dean who held fast, steady and sure, insisting they go in smart or they didn't go in at all, demanding they do nothing to imperil his kid brother. _Just 'cause I gotta die. Doesn't mean you have to. _

Dean didn't understand that it did… _it did_. It just wasn't as obvious to the rest of the world.

Sam had been dead for six months… six, long months of hell here on earth. Six months to retrace every step that led them to this tragedy and remember how even with the best of intentions Dean's deal had been a runaway train and it couldn't be stopped. He'd finally been able to breathe again once he saw his brother's still form lying on that hospital bed, but his relief again shattered when he saw no recognition in those terror-filled eyes. The terrified man who screamed out in horror now a stranger to him, while he was worse than a stranger to his brother; he was something to be loathed.

"Sam, what is it?"

He gasped out in relief, shoving all his errant thoughts back down to that black hole that consumed them, turning to lock eyes with their good friend. "Bobby, how is he?"

"Sam… what are you doing here?"

"Just tell me, Bobby, is he any better?"

Exasperated Bobby offered what little reassurance he could. "He's doing as well as can be expected." Then he again offered the same solution, their new mantra. "He needs time, Sam."

Sam shook his head dejectedly, his eyes misting as he shoved his emotions down and faced the job at hand. His voice whispered as his eyes darted about to insure the room was still empty, "Bobby, I found something."

Bobby's eyes widened and his brow furrowed; the intense look in Sam's eyes enough to make him pay close attention. All his previous doubts evaporated as he acknowledged Sam was here for a reason. "Whatcha got?"

"Omens… off the charts, Bobby. The night Dean came back, something else came too."

Bobby mulled the thought over in his head. Coincidence didn't exist in the Winchesters' universe, hadn't since the night Mary died. "Any events? Strange deaths? Disappearances?" He immediately morphed into full-on hunter mode and it always paid to start with the obvious and work your way out from there.

"Nothing."

Bobby's eyes flashed, intent and focused. "So that means it's here for Dean."

"Bobby, we have to protect him. We can't let them… " Sam gulped back the words, refusing to even consider the possibility… not after they'd come this far.

But there it was, the monster in the room. The fear that the miracle of Dean coming back wouldn't last. That somehow, some way, Hell would find a way to reclaim what it had lost.

TBC

_Thanks for reading. Any reviews are greatly appreciated. Take care, B.J._


	16. The Only Way Left is Up

"_The courage to be is the courage to accept oneself, in spite of being unacceptable."_ – Paul Tillich

Chapter Sixteen – The Only Way Left is Up

The plan was simple, protect Dean. Keep him within sight and be prepared for when the demon made its move. Bobby secured some hospital whites for Sam so he could blend in and while normally that might prove difficult considering his size, most of the orderlies and nurses at this hospital were of the larger variety, almost a job requirement making them more able to manhandle the patients into compliance. As a doctor with visiting privileges it only took a few introductions for Bobby to gain Sam acceptance as a new hire. It helped that it was after six and most of the doctors and administrators had gone home for the day.

Bobby returned to Dean's room to keep vigil while Sam infiltrated the hospital records, scanning the computer files for information. In no time at all he found the surveillance tapes of Dean's room and his therapy sessions all catalogued, standing at attention along a shelf like soldiers at roll call. Dean's entire existence since he first arrived captured for posterity, all the sordid details of every encounter with the staff and his doctors, and the long hours of nothing as he lay frozen on his bed. His entire essence reduced to video tape flickering across a fuzzy TV screen.

It was noted at the front of his chart how important he was to the hospital. The doctors had taken a special interest in his case, documenting everything for future reference, that break-through paper or insightful documentary. Hoping some notoriety from his case might help fund improvements to the hospital; maybe get them that new electronic surveillance equipment that would make the video tapes obsolete and move them into the technological age. There was something about this John Doe that sparked special interest, particularly if they could wield it in the political arena to combat the war in Iraq.

If you were prone to cynicism it might seem their interest was based more on personal or professional gain and less on the patient's rights and eventual recovery; yet they could justify their actions in their own minds. After all, they reasoned if it helped them then it would be of benefit to Mr. John Doe too. Copies of letters to 60 Minutes and Dateline were included in his file; with responses assuring them the news organizations would be interested should a break come in his case. It seemed the news agencies loved a good human-interest story, particularly since the subject was so photogenic… almost like he was made for his fifteen minutes of fame or notoriety, nothing tugs at America's heartstrings more than a broken young man who would appear to have everything going for him.

Sam fumed at their casual approach to Dean's precarious situation, furious he was treated like a lab specimen instead of a man, a man in need of help.

With a heavy sigh, he convinced himself what he was about to do was necessary, an integral piece of his research and Dean's recovery, as he popped the first tape into the player. He certainly had no desire to see his brother like this and his gut twisted in dread as he hit play.

It was as painful to watch as he'd feared, almost unbearable, but a part of him wanted to know how Dean had suffered and he reasoned if Dean could survive it, then he could at least observe it.

He barely recognized his brother, his appearance that of a caged animal, malnourished and exhausted, his eyes wild and terrified, hyped up on a steady diet of pills and fear. His mannerisms and how he cowered so foreign to the man Sam had always known and loved. He almost stopped watching until he noted a random comment on Dean's chart. Something triggered in his brain and he found the corresponding tape.

--

It didn't take long for Dean to again respond to Bobby, almost immediately tracking him with his eyes as Bobby explored his white room, examining every corner and going about the business of protecting him before settling down into the chair by Dean's side. Dean was sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the bed, his right hand still gripping the amulet in his fist, pressed to his chest, holding on like it was his salvation.

"You remember that amulet, don't you, Dean?"

_Who are you? Do I know you? Why can't I remember… so close… so damn close. Familiar… you seem so familiar._

"I know you're confused. Who wouldn't be… but you're safe now, Dean. I promise… ain't nothin' gonna hurt you now. You got my word, son."

_Your word… I don't understand, but I trust you. A man of his word._

"You're strong, Dean. Always have been. I remember the first time I ever saw you. You pointed your daddy's shotgun at me and told me to hold still. Damn, if that weren't embarrassing." Bobby chuckled at the memory. He rubbed his hands down his thighs and smiled, his eyes glimmering at the thought. "A ten-year-old getting the drop on Bobby Singer. Your daddy never did let me live that one down."

_I cocked the shotgun… Don't you move, you sonuvabitch. Don't you move…_

Dean looked up and his eyes connected with the older man. He blinked rapidly as tears blurred his vision. He opened his mouth to speak but the sound of the door lock startled him and he clamped his mouth closed, his eyes captured by the woman doctor entering his room. He tensed and cast a frantic look to the man, desperate eyes pleading for help.

"Dr. Johnson, I presume?"

Bobby rose and turned to face the voice.

"Dr. Masters, is it?" He cringed at the name while his game-face appeared friendly. A normal reflex he told himself since that demon had caused so much pain for his boys. She was older than Meg Masters, but she shared the same short blond hair. He intently looked into her eyes, cold and closed-off, but blue as the sky.

"Late to be visiting, isn't it?" she inquired as she walked up to the bed, chart in hand as she checked on her patient.

Bobby noticed the shift in Dean's demeanor, tensing and subtly moving away from her. He couldn't blame him, some people you just don't cotton to, just something turns you off to them… being a cold bitch might explain the reaction… or maybe it was being locked up in a crazy ward with doctors who didn't have a clue what he was dealing with. Their treatment of Dean had consisted of a cocktail of anti-depressants and anti-psychotics to combat the diagnosis of depression, delusional behavior and schizophrenia. They obviously were treating the symptoms and not the root cause of Dean's pain… not like they had a manual documenting a man's recovery from Hell.

Bobby responded to the doctor's stern comment with a mild rebuff, "I could say the same to you. Kinda late for doctor's hours."

She smiled, but the warmth failed to reach her eyes, still observing the two men trapped within the walls with a skeptical eye and a sly smile. "Guess I'm dedicated."

He got the distinct feeling he could stand and spar with her all night, she could give as good as she got, but he really just wanted her to leave. "I'm making progress with my nephew and I think he'll benefit from the company."

"Oh, really?" she half-sneered. "You might wanna run that by the doctor in charge of his case." She looked up with a steely eye. "And that would be me."

"Sure, no problem." Bobby was used to playing the game, keeping his cool. He could certainly handle one unpleasant doctor, even if he was tempted to do something a gentleman would never consider. He continued on with his plan. "I'm gonna stay the night, keep him company."

"Not hardly." She snapped her fingers and a burly male nurse appeared in the doorway. "Escort Mr. Johnson from the hospital." She turned back towards Bobby. "Visiting hours start at ten… in the morning."

Bobby cast a glance at Dean who was looking down at his lap, his hands clenching as they dug into his thighs. He ignored the doctor and her bouncernurse and walked up to Dean, his voice low trying to reassure him. "Dean, son, look at me." Dean raised his head slightly, his eyes barely looking up from beneath long lashes, a sideways glance toward the doctor capturing his attention for a second before he offered his eyes to Bobby. One look told Bobby of his fear.

Bobby didn't want to leave him here unprotected, he didn't want to abandon him with this bitch of a doctor, but unless he was prepared for a full-on assault, he had no choice. Dean had been in this hospital for weeks and nothing had happened, Bobby had no indication tonight would be any different. Still he wasn't above taking a few precautions. He reached into his pocket and unscrewed the flask of holy water, grasping the narrow opening at the top and tipping the container until his palm was wet.

"Well, Dean, guess I'll be seeing you in the morning. Sleep tight." He turned to Dr. Masters and extended his hand. "Nice to finally meet you, Doctor. I'd like to consult with you in the morning on my nephew's case if that's agreeable."

She took his offered hand in a handshake before disgustingly flinching back from his touch. "What the hell? You spring a leak or what?" Her eyes conveyed her contempt as she wiped her hand down her medical coat.

"Sorry, I tend to sweat when I'm nervous… Dean's condition and all. Sorry, should've… " Bobby wiped down his hand on his pants and grimaced with his apology.

"Forget it." She interrupted him and brusquely added, "Check with my nurse in the morning and I'll see if I can fit you in." She then nodded for the nurse to escort him out.

Bobby turned with regret, taking one last look at Dean sitting solemnly on his bed, his head down and his body rigid. "Dean, first thing and I'll be back. Okay, son?"

He never got a response as he was ushered out of the room.

--

The room seemed colder as soon as Bobby left, more impersonal, more sinister… or maybe it was the presence now watching him with cold, cruel eyes, delighting in how he nervously shifted, hearing the pounding in his chest betraying his fear.

She moved around his bed, slow, like a hyena preying on a wounded animal, her eyes cutting to the heart of him, licking her lips as she pictured tearing into his chest and ripping him to shreds. The memories of how sweet it was filling her with bliss.

"So _good_ to see you back in the game. I've missed you. No one else like you, Dean. You always did know how to show a girl a goodtime." She drew her tongue out across her lips, a slow, sensual, seductive move. "You gonna show me a good time, loverboy?"

He stared through her like she wasn't even there, his eyes fixed on the door, awaiting his return, willing it to happen. _Bobby, please come back… Bobby!_

"Dean, Dean… see you got your shinys back. They make you feel better? More like yourself?"

_Leave me alone, bitch! I don't care what you do… I'll give you nothing._

"Now, now, Dean… _manners_." She reached up and touched the side of his face, her fingers leaving a trail of blistering heat behind, heat that burned to the depths of his soul, causing him to close his eyes and tremble beneath her lingering touch. "That's more like it." Her fingers released him and reached into her pocket. "Now, where were we?" She smiled, a sick, twisted, victorious smile. "Oh, right… All your friends miss you. Want to know when you're coming back to play. The place just ain't been the same, y'know?"

A shudder ran the length of his body and his eyes started to fill, his mind taking him back to thoughts he'd tried to bury, images that made his body shake from the inside out, his gut clenching in terror.

She leaned in from behind, whispering in his ear, taunting and toying, having her fun. "You _really_ didn't think we'd just let you leave now, did you? You're too much fun… the belle of the ball." She pulled out a hypodermic needle and made a show of pushing the plunger so the liquid squirted out of the tip. "You ready for another go-round?" She moved directly in front of him, her voice stern and commanding. "Give me the amulet."

He looked up and his eyes focused, a spark came over them and he smiled, just a slight upturn with his dimples finding their way back to him, his own small sign of victory. His voice was hoarse from disuse, his throat working extra hard to force the words out, but his desire fueled his determination and he spoke clearly and firmly, his eyes fixed in a death glare. "Take it, bitch."

--

Bobby was half-way to the exit when he spoke, just a friendly comment to draw the burly nurse closer. "Doctor Masters always so intense?"

The man paused, seemed genuinely nervous before he spoke, "Actually, no."

Bobby furrowed his brows, his eyes piercing as they focused on the man. "No?" he rasped out.

"She's not herself lately… must be the pressure or something." He stopped and almost seemed to be apologizing. "She's really a nice lady… normally."

That was exactly what Bobby didn't need to hear and it put his senses on high alert. _Dammit! I knew there was something screwy with her. _

As the man leaned in, Bobby threw the holy water in his face causing him to sputter as he wiped the liquid away. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Sorry, my mistake," Bobby replied as he offered a swift punch to the man's face followed by a classic special-forces move with a belly shot and finishing off with a back slam that disabled him in a quick flurry of action. "But, I don't have time for this."

He dragged the nurse to a supply closet and shoved his over-sized body into the confining space. As he closed the door against his feet he muttered softly, "Sleep tight."

He was mere feet from where Sam was researching and if he was right, Dean would need all the help he could get. He swiftly walked through the doorway, shouting as he went.

"Sam, it's happening."

Sam was leaning into the TV monitor, practically wearing it as a necklace but he startled back as Bobby approached.

"Bobby? I thought you were with Dean?"

"Long story, c'mon."

"Bobby, wait, you need to see this."

"What?"

Sam pointed to the screen. Bobby's eyes narrowed as he took in the image of Dr. Masters having a session with Dean, a decidedly different psychological session, hardly what the hospital would condone.

"Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed as his suspicions were confirmed.

"_What,_ Bobby?" Sam's eyes widened with concern, Bobby's reaction more intense than even he expected.

"She's with Dean now. I just left 'em."

"_What?_ How _could_ you?" The accusation came out harsher than intended but Sam didn't care, his worst fears again threatening to come true.

"Sam, I splashed holy water on her. Nothin'."

"Her pay grade… " Sam replied as he headed for the door.

Bobby was right behind him as they exited into the hallway. "What?"

Sam was barreling down the hall, long strides taking him back to his brother. "That night, Ruby… I mean, _Lilith_ said at her pay grade she wouldn't sweat the holy water. Ole yellow-eyes, it didn't work with him either. Bobby, we have to get to him… stop it, this has got to be a powerful demon."

Bobby grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. "Sam, stop! We _need_ to think."

"No, Bobby… I'm not gonna… " Sam stopped, visibly shaking, his jaw locked firm as his eyes pleaded, every fiber of his being trembling in anticipation and dread, ready to spring forth in a death leap. Ready to do whatever it took to save his brother.

"We're no good to Dean dead. She didn't kill him before… or _take_ him. She must be waiting for something."

Sam's eyes widened. "The amulet. On the tape… she kept asking him about the amulet, but he didn't have it."

"Dammit!… Not until I gave it back to him!"

--

She had inhuman strength as she pulled him off the bed and dangled him above her, his feet a good foot off the floor, her hand wrapped around his throat and pressed up under his chin, all his weight bearing down and stealing the life from him. He gasped, struggling for air, and his eyes rolled back in his head before she chuckled and flung him against the wall. His back and shoulders hit the wall in a dull thud cracking the plaster and he started to fall forward before her mind threw him back flat against the wall, holding him there before her, his eyes trying to focus as the room spun around him.

When he could finally see straight he stared at her as she approached, her true form revealing itself and he shrunk back from the grotesque image. All his time in Hell came back in a flood of emotion, washing over him in a cascade of pain; all the taunts as they carved up his body and how he screamed back in vain. All their burning touches and the feelings they imposed upon him immediate as he waited for her to inflict more torture.

"You, Winchesters, always too much fun."

He took a moment to find himself, to steel himself for the coming trial. He smiled in response, a tight, forced grin showing too much teeth while his gut clenched so tight he could barely breathe, but he wouldn't submit to her, not now… not _ever_ again. His mom's voice a steady presence to center him, comforting him through this final journey. _"Hold on, baby. He's coming."_ His eyes flashed as the question arose, _Who is coming?_ He didn't waste time pondering the thought; he was facing down evil, right here, right now… He closed his mind to any fear and stepped into the arena. "And you, demons, always with the same games. You'd think you'd want to try something new."

"Why? You know what they say about a sure thing?"

"Yeah, skanks always put out," he snarled.

"Don't you wish? Of course, this body isn't up to my usual standards, but it'll do in a pinch. The name was a nice surprise… God, I couldn't write this stuff."

He grimaced, his cocky sneer trembling just a little, hopefully not enough for her to notice. The voice in his head was whispering.., _stay strong.., show no fear.., hang on… he is coming. _"At least you don't take credit for the bad script. Really, _Meg…_ I expected better from you."

"You did, huh?" You slithered forward, her eyes delighting in the vision before her, his body pressed firm against the wall, his muscles straining, trying to break free, rippling from the effort. His jaw set with that masculine determination, his eyes finally showing he was back in the game again, glimmering with a spark of defiance. "You seem to be more coherent, Dean… but still a might confused. Meg's in Hell… _remember?_ You sent her there."

He looked up shocked as he tried to catch up. He felt his mind adjusting, the adrenaline of the danger he was in snapping him back to the hunter he once was. Pieces of the puzzle were quickly tumbling into place and Meg was one of the main pieces, the one who tormented them here on earth; who then came to torture him down in Hell. His nemesis, the enemy… a face to loathe and focus all his anger toward. "But…?"

"But, _what..,_ Dean?" She slid her hand down his face, caressing his skin, not burning, real fingers now, a soft touch but he knew not to believe. Her hand travelled lower, brushing across his chest and down to his stomach clenched tight. She smiled as she played with the elastic band at the waist of his hospital whites. "Meg's still in Hell. We can't claw our way out so quickly. Oh, she did the one time, but sis has a way of getting herself in trouble."

"Sis?"

"Little sister… Daddy's favorite… " She smiled, sick and twisted as she leaned in, her breath ghosting across his lips, hovering like she was going to claim them before she backed off. "Bet you can relate, huh?"

He offered his cocky smirk, the edge not quite back, but he made a noble effort, his voice making up the difference as he snarked at her, "So ol' yellow-eyes claimed two bitches… two lying skanks. Daddy _must've_ been proud."

"Prouder than Daddy Winchester. Too bad, your daddy didn't see you down there. Crying… begging… _screaming._ Think he'd be proud, Dean?" Her hand settled just beneath his waistband as she leaned into him, finally claiming a taste of his lips in a delicate, chaste kiss. "Too bad we don't have time for a better hello."

Dean cringed and his mind veered all over the place, all his terrors erupting up through his chest, all his fears assaulting his brain, competing with his desire to stand firm and strong, to face down his terrors and be the hunter that _would_ make his dad proud. "So what now?"

"Can't wait, huh?" she teased as she backed away from him. "You ready to take a little trip? Got your sunblock packed?" Her eyes glimmered as she breathed in the faint taste of his fear. "Gonna need it."

His eyes were so close to losing it, the tears right there begging to fall, but he wouldn't let them. He closed his eyes to the horrors facing him and tunneled inward, not to hide, but to find that tempered steel strength his mom told him was there. He was all alone here, whatever was before him would happen regardless… all he could do was handle how he reacted, how he let it affect him.

He could be the man he always wanted to be or he could crumble to the floor.

He wasn't about to crumble… not before the likes of her.

"Bring it, bitch!"

"Why, Dean, you're back… snarky as ever… " She smiled as she leaned in, her lips flittering along his cheek as she whispered in his ear, "Let's see about bringing back the friendlier version, shall we?" She moved in with the hypodermic, making sure he saw it up close before she positioned the point at his neck and slowly slid it under his skin as his lips curled up in a grimace, the veins in his neck sticking out as he braced against the assault. When it was fully inserted she pushed the plunger down, again slow and steady, delighting when his eyes lost focus as his body quickly reacted to the drug. "That's better." She patted his head as it lulled to the side, his eyes opening and swimming around the room in a hazy pattern. "Oops, seems like John Doe is having another episode… " Her tone turned mocking, "What _will_ we do?"

The door burst open and Bobby came barreling through the doorway, the Latin exorcism rolling forth from his lips, fast and furious as he approached her. She looked up from Dean and stared directly into Bobby's eyes before jerking her head toward the other wall, her gaze following him as he was plastered against it.

"So you aren't totally dumb, Singer… just _mostly,_" she gloated.

Bobby strained against the pressure, but all he could manage was to stand upright, held firm against the wall. His eyes quickly found Dean and he tried to reach him, connect him to him. "Dean? DEAN!"

Dean rolled his head to the side following the voice, his mind trying to register, hold on to the present and fight the drug. His vision was blurred but he could make out the man, his friend… Bobby. _Bobby came back! _His voice was shaky, reflecting how tremulous his entire body felt, disembodied and feeling so fluttery, like he was viewing his life through the bottom of a bottle of whiskey after a long bender. His voice sounded foreign, reverberating through his head and echoing out, too loud, too raw. "Bobby… Bobby… " His voice wandered off, his mind unable to form a coherent sentence, simply relieved he could remember his friend and that he hadn't left him… he'd come back. Such a simple thing, but even in their precarious situation it meant the world. He wasn't alone… _he wasn't alone._

"Dean, good to have you back, son."

Dean looked over again, his hearing perking up at the familiar endearment… _son._ God, it felt good to have that connection and he felt his strength surge, imperceptibly building, his family giving him strength when he thought he'd reached the limits of his endurance. He concentrated on getting the words out, on fixing the cocky smirk to his lips as he replied, "Damn straight."

Clapping disturbed the relative calm, Dr. Masters or the bitch that inhabited her meat suit, gleefully slapping her hands together in mock applause. "Such a touching family reunion. Another chick-flick moment, huh, Dean? Too bad Sammy's not here to complete the family portrait."

Dean turned his head away from her as new tears pricked his eyes, the drug playing havoc with his emotions and his senses, bringing on the full horrors of Sam's death in his mind, vivid and crystal clear. He shook his head to clear the images, desperately pleading in his mind for the boy, Sammy, to appear and chase the hurt away.

"Oh, I'm here."

The voice was unexpected and firm and she whirled around. Stealthy as a ninja, Sam had entered the room unnoticed as her focus was on Bobby and his exorcism. He moved quickly wielding Ruby's demon-killing knife with deadly precision as he sliced through the air inches from her throat.

She reacted with inhuman speed, barely avoiding the blade as it flashed before her. She reached out and grabbed his arm, flipping him over and bringing the floor up to greet him. He rolled as he landed, coming back to his feet and returning for another attack. She grinned as she toyed with him, her speed and strength unmatched no matter how competent he was in a fight.

"Sammy, _little Sammy_… not quite up for the fight, now, are ya? Maybe you should've paid more attention to Daddy's lessons?" She kicked him in the gut and when he bent over grabbing his stomach she hauled off with an upper-cut and the blow to his face made him sail through the air, landing with a thud at Dean's feet. She delighted in seeing the Winchester brothers laid out before her. "Dean, you proud of little bro?"

Dean looked down at the vision, his eyes disbelieving and confused, his mind reeling. This looked like his brother, not a demon, not a sick facsimile that tortured him for days on end or longer down in Hell. But he saw Sam die… _he saw…_ His tongue was thick in his mouth, struggling to get the word out. "Sammy?"

Sam felt like he'd been slammed into by a semi-tractor trailer rig travelling at a hundred miles an hour, but his heart jumped and all his energy focused on that one word… _Sammy. _His eyes connected with his brother's and he nodded, his smile registering all his joy and hope. Before he could speak he was hauled up and then again thrown back to the floor in a bone-crushing blow. She stepped after him and grasped his throat, bringing him to his feet and slowly and delightfully squeezing the life from him as he clawed at her arms desperate for air.

Bobby started chanting the exorcism again and she turned to face him, a shift of her head silencing him as she renewed her focus on holding him to the wall and preventing him from speaking. Dean slid to the floor behind her as she released him, all energy needed to fight the two hunters who actually posed a threat.

Dean's legs were unable to support him, the drug fully affecting his body and mind, turning him into a helpless mass of flesh… not much different than nights spent in Hell, unable to fight back, unable to control his body or what happened to it.

His legs were sprawled out before him, his back resting against the wall with his head thrown back and his mouth open and gasping, heavy breathing trying to stabilize his thoughts and focus on what was happening before him.

Bobby was pinned to the wall, unable to speak or move. His eyes followed the action as Sam was thrown about like a rag doll. He turned his focus back to Dean. Dean had slid to the floor when she released him and Bobby silently willed him to rise, his eyes desperately begging the younger hunter to move, to do something before she won and he was again left all alone, unprotected and vulnerable.

It looked hopeless. The demon had no fears that Dean posed a threat and he appeared to be totally under the influence of the drug, whatever it was she'd pumped into his system.

Sam was being thrashed and in their struggles the knife had fallen to the floor. Sam tried to grab it again but she kicked it away. It skidded across the floor and came to rest beside Dean's limp body, the blade glistening in the dim light. She cast a brief glance towards it before she dismissed it as irrelevant. She turned all attention back to Sam as she finally went for the kill, squeezing the life from him in a slow, deadly display of sadism, literally draining the life from him one shallow breath at a time.

"_Dean, you need to get up. Now, Dean… move!"_

Dean stumbled as he tried to rise, one leg bent as he placed his foot flat on the floor. He reached out his right hand and his fingers curled around the bone grip of the knife as his other leg pulled back and his foot found its traction. He pressed back against the wall and used the firm support to maintain his balance. Slowly he rose, like the Phoenix rising from the ashes, an impossible sight, but he was a Winchester and this was important. Lives depended on him finding that tempered steel resolve, in doing the impossible, in finding a way to make it happen.

His eyes focused on his brother, _his Sammy_, visions from countless past encounters with evil flashing through his crowded mind, Sammy struggling to breathe, fighting to live. He took two steps forward and plunged the knife into the demon's back, falling forward and using his weight to push the knife deeper.

Sam sucked in a lung-full of air, his eyes watering from the lack of oxygen and how closely he'd come to losing consciousness. The demon doctor was lighting up as if a lightning bolt had struck her, just like every other demon that had died at the mercy of that knife, her eyes shocked and vacant as the life drained from her body and it slumped to the floor. Behind her he saw his brother, Dean had the knife in his hand as he stumbled back against the wall losing his balance and crashing to the floor in a heap.

Bobby was immediately released from the wall and hurried to Sam's side, offering a strong arm to steady him as he regained his senses. They both paused as they turned to Dean. He was leaning his head back against the wall, his eyes closed as if to rest. Sam gave Bobby a hopeful look, desperate for some reassurance and Bobby smiled in return. He patted his shoulder and pushed him gently towards his brother. "Looks like you're due a reunion," he tenderly offered.

Sam kneeled before his brother. "Dean?"

His eyes didn't open at first, like if he kept them closed he could stay in the fantasy, make the world conform to his desires; insure that it _was_ true… that _his_ Sammy was still alive. Tentatively he reached outward from his cocoon of safety.

"Sammy?"

The voice was so low, so hesitant, so welcome.

"Dean… I'm here. I'm here." Sam moved closer to his brother, still wary of moving too quickly and scaring him.

Dean slowly opened his eyes and he shook from all the emotion washing over him, his eyes filled with tears, his lips curving up in a trembling smile, his dimples flashing for the first time in god-knows-when. He sat still on the floor, his body twisted up in a ball pressed back against the corner of the room, his chest heaving in and out. A shaky hand reached up to wipe the sweat and tears from his cheeks, his eyes flashing through a dozen emotions as his mind tried to process what had just happened.

Sam couldn't take his eyes off him.

Dean moved to rise, his hands grasping at the walls to steady himself, his legs weak from disuse and the drugs still filtering through his system. He almost made it upright when he stumbled falling back against the wall and then threatening to collapse back down to the floor. He needn't have worried, his brother was right there to catch him as he fell.

Sam gripped his arms around his brother's chest and pulled him to him, Dean's shoulders and ribs lacking the firm muscles that normally encased them, now thin and slightly boney. Sam concentrated on not holding him too tight and was pleased to feel Dean press himself deeper into the hold. Dean's arms wrapping around him like he was a lifeline holding him on this side of the divide.

It seemed so long since he'd touched his brother, longer since he'd held him. The last time he held Dean was on the floor of that home in Indiana. Dean's limp body void of any life. He finally had him back, he was again holding his brother, living and breathing, and Dean was holding him too. They stayed locked in their embrace, neither wanting to let the other go.

"Dean, you saved me," Sam whispered, all his hopes and dreams answered as he felt his brother's heart beating against his chest.

Dean contentedly smiled as he leaned into his brother, his speech tickling his ear he was so close. "You came, Sammy… you came."

"I couldn't leave you, bro… just couldn't do it."

"'m glad," he mumbled, "Wicked witch wouldn't leave me alone."

Sam leaned back slightly so he could see Dean clearer. "Wicked witch?" he softly asked.

Dean smiled, goofy and lopsided, his eyes unfocused and he seemed to be drifting in and out of the conversation. He paused a long time and Sam thought he was finally out of it, but then his eyes opened again and he added in a slurred voice, "Wanted the ruby slippers… wouldn't let the bitch have 'em." He licked his lips and nuzzled into his brother's shoulder. "Only way back home… "

Sam grinned in wonder at how his brother's mind worked, Dean still amazing after all he'd been through, still _Dean_ after everything he'd endured. He wrapped his arms around him and held on tight as he slipped into a drug-induced sleep.

TBC

_Well, I've decided to give more time to Dean's recovery, and I hope that's okay. I think we all deserve a little more insight into that before we finish out this story. I've outlined four more chapters and the final chapter is actually totally written. I rather like it so I'll see if I can get us there as quickly as possible._

_It was really great to have the actual show back on the air. I know Kripke's version of Hell and Dean's recovery will be spectacular… but he has Jensen and Jared and Jim speaking his lines and acting out his scenes… the lucky bastard! Sighs with envy! What I wouldn't give to have them say my lines… or save me from all my horrid dialogue and just express all their anguish by a simple look. Man, I love this show!_

_Thanks for letting me play with the guys, Kripke. Thank you to all the readers and reviewers, much appreciated. Later, B.J._


	17. One is the Loneliest Number

Well, I guess the verdict is in, this story is definitely viewing Dean's return from Hell differently than the actual show is presenting it. I said this was an AU and now that we've seen Kripke's version it should be obvious I don't read spoilers, although there are a few tantalizing similarities. The remaining four chapters were mostly written before S4 started and I'm not going to change things to try and follow canon.

Hopefully the characterizations will still ring true, but their circumstances will notably be changed. I think if you stick with me the end result will be satisfying… at least I hope so. Fanfics do allow us to examine the emotional wounds in greater detail than the show can in the limited span of forty minutes. I sincerely hope you enjoy my alternate version. Thanks for reading, B.J.

--

"_Our language has wisely sensed the two sides of being alone. It has created the word loneliness to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word solitude to express the glory of being alone._" – Paul Tillich

Chapter Seventeen – One is the Loneliest Number

He had Dean back, but he was still alone. Dean would sit in shotgun position for hours without moving, without speaking. A simple shift of his legs would grab Sam's attention as he waited for something… _anything_ to show his brother was still present in this life, here and now, instead of lost again.

It was most disturbing that Dean seemed oblivious to the music Sam played. He hadn't tossed Dean's tapes, he would never _ever_ do that, but in Dean's absence he'd added a few he'd picked up at the thrift store. Something more civilized, some singers that Jess had liked and he'd followed her lead, learning to appreciate music that didn't come from long hair and heavy-metal guitars.

Dean was mindless to the change, acting as if nothing was amiss, like it was _normal_ to be sitting in his baby listening to Garth Brooks singing 'The Dance'. The country song not even causing a ripple of dissent as Dean failed to comment… possibly not even noticing.

_Maybe it doesn't even matter… not like in the grand scheme of things the music we listen to means a damn thing. _

Thing is, it always had before.

Dean's choice in music as much a statement of who he was as his actions, his leather coat and his cocky attitude. It played a big part in the man he used to be, not the man who now sat silent.

Bobby had taken off on a job that couldn't wait, promising to meet up with them further down the road. It was precisely the sort of job Sam would have been back-up on a month ago, but now he didn't want to risk leaving his brother on his own… and Dean certainly wasn't up to a gig. Dean hadn't even offered any interest in working, his time now occupied by sleeping or solemnly staring out the side window of the impala as she chewed up the scenery.

He hadn't even made a comment about the car, except for the first time he saw her.

--

His eyes lit up as he slid his hand over the front fender, the dust coming off in a streak and Sam grimaced. He should have detailed her for the big reunion, made her all shiny and new again to re-introduce her to her true owner. The old Dean would have made a snarky comment, belittled his kid brother for being lazy and leading her to ruin before insisting they take her to the car wash pronto to save her from Sam's slovenly ways.

And not a car wash with mechanized equipment which was too rough on her delicate features, one with an open bay and a pressurized manual sprayer and you insert your quarters for more time and soap; Dean foregoing their wax for his own preferred brand that he kept in the trunk and would lovingly massage in to make her shine. She would come out the other side looking brand new off-the-showroom, and he would beam with pride.

There was no denying it was a beautiful sight to behold, a man and his car, a love affair, the only steady girl in Dean's life.

Now the reunion was short and somewhat sweet as a sly grin spread across his face, his dimples briefly flashing when his hand moved to the driver's door handle and pulled it open, sitting behind the wheel and raising his hands up to grasp the steering wheel, slowly wrapping his fingers around the grip. His back easing into the leather seat as he relaxed. He looked at home even though he acted like he wasn't quite sure what to do next. He simply sat there, savoring the moment, and when Sam suggested he take her for a spin he paused for the longest while and then hopped out, tossing the keys back to his brother and silently walking around the front and taking his place in shotgun.

"Dean, you sure you don't want to drive? We don't have to go far."

He shook his head 'no' and slouched down, resting his head on the back of the seat with a heavy sigh and closing his eyes.

Sam crossed to the driver's side and climbed in; hoping a brisk drive down the blacktop would ease Dean back into his life. He turned over the engine and she purred; thankfully six months hadn't required much more than an oil change. He pulled out of the parking lot and they were off on another adventure… just the Winchester Brothers again united against the world.

Dean seemed to be enjoying the ride, at least as much as he seemed to enjoy anything now, until he sat up with a start, his eyes wide, horror-struck as he looked right through his brother sitting beside him, tensing with his hand gripping at the leather seat.

"Sam, pull over!"

With panic starting to take hold, Sam immediately drove onto the shoulder and Dean flew out of the car, collapsing to his knees in the gravel and violently heaving, bile and his lunch finding their way back to the surface.

Sam raced around the car and knelt beside him.

"God, Dean… you okay?" Sam massaged the juncture of his neck to his shoulders as his brother sat folded in on himself, dry heaving since he'd hardly eaten anything all day and what he had was already in a pile on the ground. "Dean? What is it?"

After a considerable passage of time, Dean reached out a shaky hand and gripped his brother's arm, his fingers digging in, _hanging on_, as he leaned into him and attempted to rise. "'m sorry, Sammy, 'm sorry."

"Dean, it's okay… no need to be sorry. I went too fast… I shoulda… "

"NO!" he protested, his voice rising higher than it had since he'd come back. "It's _me_… I'm not right… " His voice turned softer with a low, shuddering vibrato, "I'm just not right." He looked up from beneath long lashes, his eyes defeated and weary, connecting for a moment of truth before looking away, hoping to again hide his failings.

Sam pulled him completely to his feet and insistently recaptured that connection, gaining Dean's full attention, all his faith in his big brother beaming across the distance as his own tender eyes tried to instill confidence. "It's too soon, Dean… you'll be all right. I promise."

Dean's face was a mask hiding all emotion, or maybe he was too drained to have any emotions left, but he simply looked sad… and resigned… so very close to defeated. "Sam, you don't _know_ that," he stated, his tone conveying he didn't want to argue the point, didn't want to hear all the platitudes that Sam was getting so good at giving… the simple-minded, everything-will-be-all-right, empty promises.

--

It was good to be back in my baby, my brother beside me, the open road before us. You never know how much you miss something until it's taken away. _Freedom…_ being able to pack everything you own in a duffle, throw it in the trunk, and just go.

I know Sam expected me to drive, was shocked when I declined; but I felt twitchy, not quite ready, and it's a good thing I chose shotgun. I know I freaked him out… To be honest, I'm freaking myself out here. Driving has always centered me, never made me nervous… I've been driving since I was thirteen… but now the responsibility weighs on me. What if I make a mistake? What if I have an 'episode'? _What if? _

I didn't want to risk it; _I_ _couldn't_, not yet.

I don't want to be a problem for Sam, _I don't_… I just don't know how to react right now and it scares me. It's easier to sit in shotgun and let him take control. I trust Sam… trust him a hell of a lot more than I do me right now.

Being on the open road like that was good, I was starting to forget the past and live in the moment… everything was going so well, my baby roaring down the blacktop, the ride easy and carefree… _exhilarating_, just like it used to be. Sam had her opened up and the scenery was whirling by and everything was perfect until…

"_Hey, loverboy… thanks for the lift. Cool car."_

"_What the hell?"_

_She laughed, her grin like a dental ad, she was showing so many white teeth. "No, Dean… not.. quite.. yet.., but give it time."_

"_You're just in my head… this isn't real… it can't be." I squeezed my eyes shut… which meant they weren't already shut… and damn if that didn't scare me… 'Cause if I'm not sleeping than that means this isn't a dream. All I could think was, 'God… is this real?'_

"_Real? Hmmm, interesting question. I swear, Dean, you are a lot sharper than folk think. Always asking the tough questions, huh, babe?" _

_She reached over and touched my face and I gasped, her fingers so cold to the touch, but the skin in her wake started to smolder and then burn. I felt my cheek catch on fire and I immediately clasped my hand over it to smother the flames. _

"_What are you doing to me?" I pleaded, at a loss and so damn scared. Every emotion churning up and taking me back down that road… back to the pit. The fires and the screams real again… so damn real._

"_Me? I'm just playing… You like to play, now.., don'tcha?"_

_My gut twisted in on itself and I was there again. It felt like her fingers were inside me, kneading my stomach like dough, rolling it up in a big lump of flour and lard before leaving it to bake in the heat surrounding us. The roiling of my stomach started down low and while I tried to control it, tried to shove all the emotions back down, they refused to be denied, erupting up to the surface in a messy explosion._

"Sam, pull over!"

I couldn't control myself, I barely made it out of the car and I was on my knees, barfing up the little I'd managed to keep down that day, dry heaving as my guts exploded in pain.

I ended up curled up on the ground with the gravel biting into my knees and I was paralyzed with fear, unable to rise and face my demons, scared to live my life. The past haunting me, telling me I'd never be free.

Sam is so concerned, telling me it's okay to be a freaking girl, to fall apart like a wuss, to spill my guts by the side of the road when what he _really_ wants is me to spill my guts another way… to start talking and not stop until he _knows_ what Hell was like, until he can't sleep at night from the pictures I've placed in his head.

He needs that as much as he needs to be saddled with a friggin' invalid, a basket-case scared of every shadow, terrified this is only a temporary respite and my time is again coming to face the fires of Hell.

So damn scared I'll never be free of that hell.

I need to find my strength somewhere other than through him. I can't lean on him forever; I've got to learn to stand on my own. No one can make me better; no one can release me from this pain and tell me it's going to be all right… that _I'll_ be all right.

Sam tries… damn if he ain't stubborn. I guess I'd be doing the same… if it was me and he was the one… I can't even think that way. I'd _never_ want Sammy to know what I now know… _ever._

I'd rather die and go back myself than ever hurt Sammy like that.

He's talking and I can't really hear what he's saying, but his hand is gentle on my neck, massaging my shoulders, and it feels good. It may be a chick-flick moment, but damn, I can't deny it helps. Honestly, I want to let him wrap me in his arms and hide me from _them_… but that's not gonna work. Obviously, they can find me whenever they want. He can't save me from my own version of Hell… I'm thinking maybe I'm the only one who can do that.

And that scares the crap outta me, 'cause I still feel so lost, so alone. He's _here_, right beside me and I know he's not gonna leave. I _know _that. But I can't let him inside my head, at least not yet, and that's where the battle lies.

"Dean, you'll be all right. I promise," he says for the hundredth time.

"Sam, you don't _know _that."

His eyes flash and his chest noticeably falls, the hope crushed out of him in an instant.

God, I hate to do that to him… he's trying so hard… _so hard._ But we both need to face facts. Hard as it is…

I'm not the man I used to be.

--

One day bleeds into the next as we tool around the country, listless, without a purpose. One motel after another, the town we pulled into this afternoon looks like the last ten.

"So you hungry? 'Cause I'm starving."

He looks so hopeful, trying so hard to be casual and breezy, like it isn't a major chore to get any food down me. I know this is screwed. He's stealing all my lines. Sam has rarely been the one to point out we were in need of food. It was always me in the past, ready to chow down and fill the tank.

"Hey, the sign says homemade pie. Sounds good. How 'bout it?" He's grinning like pie's the Holy Grail, the be-all and end-all.

_God, if only a slice would do it for me._

I know he only wants to help, but it hurts to have him so desperate to make it seem like a normal thing, just a regular stop at a roadside diner, and not a major plot to put the pounds back on me. _Pie…_ Damn, if I _shouldn't_ be excited… Lord knows, I would've been in the past, but now… I dunno… it's strange, nothing sounds appealing, nothing tastes like I remember. My gut… it's always churning and food just makes it worse. Half the time I want to barf it up before I even get it swallowed.

Even chewing is a chore.

The waitress strolls up and Sam offers her that boyish grin of his, like nothing in the world could faze him. It may fool her, but it doesn't fool me. He looks older now, the past six months aging him. He still has those shaggy bangs forever falling in his eyes like the innocent young man he used to be, but his eyes are haunted now, even though he tries his best to hide the pain, to deny the toll that losing me cost him. I _know_ that look. It's close to the look that greets me each morning in the latest dingy motel's bathroom mirror and I hate that I'm responsible for that look on my kid brother's face. He doesn't deserve this.

"What'll it be?" she asks, her pen poised over her order pad.

"Two coffees and give us a few, 'kay?" Sam offers.

"You got it."

Sam takes control a lot now. Coffee the one sure bet in this messed up existence. I could live on coffee alone, but Sam will have none of that.

"So, Dean, you need to eat. Need to get your strength back."

_Food's not gonna to give me back my strength, Sam. A bit more complicated than that…_

Sam is nothing if not persistent. "Meatloaf looks good, or maybe a hot roast beef sandwich. Huh? A little mashed potatoes and gravy? Sound good?" His fingers nervously drum on the plastic menu as he stares at me, expectantly waiting for a response. "Maybe you should try something more than a burger, y'know?"

_He's treating me like a freakin' kid. Like I'm ten years old… What's he thinking? That he's my mother? _

_Oh, god.., I miss her… I miss Sammy, the boy… so innocent, so pure… not damaged and worried over me. I miss those days… those carefree days when I knew my place, what was expected. Back when I knew how to do my job._

Sam is looking at me with those eyes of his, those sad-sack, puppy dog eyes. _Waiting. _He doesn't let me get a word in, not that I was ready anyway. Seems he's always talking now, like the silence is the enemy and as long as he's talking he has me with him and I haven't checked myself back out into la la land.

"So, what'cha think?" he asks again.

I slide my menu to the side of the table and answer, hoping to shut him up, "Hot roast beef."

He grins like he just won the lottery, or better still, found an obscure, rare book sitting on a library shelf. "Good choice, Dean."

_Yeah, right, Sammy… _

_I feel like a dog doing tricks, a trained animal performing for its master. _

_I don't want to be so bitchy, I don't… I just don't feel like eating, but if it makes Sam happy, I'll try. I guess it's the least I can do._

My food is too salty when it comes, probably on the burner all day. I pick at it, eating a few bites but mainly moving it around on my plate, piling it up on one end so it looks like I've eaten the hole in the middle. Sam tries not to stare, but he's not an idiot, far from it. He knows what I'm doing, but he doesn't say anything about it. Probably relieved I'm making a half-assed effort.

He shifts in his seat as he finishes his food, pushing his plate away before glancing at the restroom and I dread what comes next.

"You ready to hit the head?"

That's it… I'm done with this whole cripple thing. _I am not a freakin' invalid!_ "We're not _girls_, Sam. We don't have to use the buddy system." It's blunt and to the point and probably the longest string of words I've managed to put together since I left the hospital. I look up and he doesn't look hurt exactly, just frustrated… and _worried._ And I feel guilty. "I'm alright, Sam. I'm not going anywhere… _honest_."

He nods slowly, the thoughts still processing through that monster brain of his before he slides out of the booth. "Yeah.., sure. I'll be right back then."

And for the first time since we left the hospital I'm on my own, aside from the obvious times in the motel bathroom, but that doesn't count since Sam is always right outside the door, waiting for me to reappear.

_Alone… _

It's scary in a way, but it feels good. Like I can be trusted to not completely fall apart if left on my own.

Alone… _alone…_ I can handle it. _Not like Sammy's that far away… _

"_So, what's with the not eating?"_

_The boy is sitting across from me, picking at my plate with Sam's fork, shoveling in all the leftover food like he's staving. I try to ignore him, turn my head toward the hallway Sam disappeared down, awaiting his return._

"_Hey, you… I'm talkin' to you."_

_Damn if this kid isn't persistent._

"_What now?" I ask with annoyance._

"_You never passed up food before… what gives?"_

_I give him a quick smirk, with a bit of a glare to my eyes, defiant, I guess. "Not hungry."_

"_Yeah, sure… And I s'pose you'd pass on a chance at Lindsay Lohan?"_

_He's grinning at me with that cocky smirk… I swear, it's a wonder Dad didn't backhand me for that smart mouth. _

_I gotta say… it is damn tempting._

"_So, how old are you, kid?"_

"_Old enough… you should know that."_

"_Yeah… " I give him a casual shrug. "So what gives? Why you still hangin' around?"_

_His dimples flash and his eyes smirk… how in the hell does he do that? He is so smug and aggravating… Good thing I grew into my smartass ways. I mean… I'm adorable now, but back then… _

_I guess the ladies thought it was cute… hell, I __know__ the ladies thought I was cute. But I certainly was a pain in the ass. _

_Huh.., just like Sam says._

"_C'mon, Dean… why do ya think I'm sticking around?"_

"_Oh, I dunno… my awesome company?"_

"_Yeah, right! You're a barrel of laughs now."_

"_Takes one to know one," I snark back._

_On a dime he changes, he's suddenly serious, his eyes staring straight through me and it's uncomfortable, like he can see inside me and I don't like it. He may be me, but he's too young to see who I am.., what I am. _

_I don't want him seeing…_

_I know it's crazy, but I want to protect him._

"_Look, you should go."_

_He shakes his head in the negative and continues ravaging the food on my plate. _

"_Can't. Not yet."_

"_Why? Why are you here?"_

"_I'm here to remind you."_

"_Oh, yeah?" I quirk my brows at that and give him my best smirk. "Remind me of what?"_

"_To keep fighting. It's not just the monsters out there, y'know."_

_My eyes tear up, because I do know… and it scares the crap outta me. _

_My head is the scariest battlefield I've ever faced._

_He smiles then, real and sincere, and he looks so young and almost innocent, like a kid who has the whole world before him, a million possibilities. Thing is, I know different. I know what he faces and it ain't pretty. _

_His voice is low but sure, his eyes piercing as he stares directly into mine. "You need to keep fighting for him." And he quirks his head toward the hallway where Sam is returning from the bathroom._

_I take a deep breath, nodding to him as I speak, "I'll try." And I mean it; I'd do anything for Sammy._

_He surprises me then with his next words, his final words before he disappears from Sam's seat as Sam plops back down into the booth._

"_And Dean… how about you do it for me, too?"_

--

Sam rolled over for the hundredth time and stared at the bed next to him, the bathroom light was on and the door was ajar letting enough light into the room to allow a hazy view of the occupant sound asleep upon it. He listened to the steady breathing for a moment and closed his eyes. He thought it wasn't long, but time has a habit of stealing the night and when he next opened his eyes he again sought out the still form.

In a panic, he shot out of bed. Dean was gone. He raced to the bathroom and pushed the door in to find it empty. He stumbled to the dresser and quickly snapped on the lamp allowing more light to filter into the room. The covers on Dean's bed were kicked to the bottom leaving an empty flat space.

Sam's heart was pounding, positive he'd have heard if the door had opened during the night, cursing that he'd fallen asleep from his exhaustion and lost vigilance. His eyes travelled to the door and there curled up on the floor was Dean. His back was pressed into the corner and his knees were drawn up, his head down, resting on them with his arms wrapped around his bent legs as if he was trying to make himself small.

Sam took a deep breath to still the racing of his heart and calmly walked before him. "Dean?" No response so he moved closer, softly whispering, "Dean?"

Dean's head rose and his eyes were so tender and lost, so childlike. His face was pale like the finest porcelain, all color washed from his cheeks; translucent like you could almost gaze into his very soul, ripped open and exposed. He spoke so low Sam barely heard him, in a broken whisper, "Can you see me?"

Sam's eyes blinked back his surprise, it was the middle of the night and he'd been awakened from a deep sleep, so it took his mind a second to process the thought. "See you?"

"Am I real?"

Sam stomach fluttered around a huge knot buried there, the vision before him so vulnerable, so fragile. He moved to comfort him, hoping his words would be a security line to tether his brother to him. "Of course you're real, Dean." His bottom lip quivered and he bit it lightly to still the trembling. "It's okay.., Dean, you're safe."

"Safe? Safe from _what?"_ His eyes widened and his face posed a million questions, his eyes flickering in confusion like he'd been transported onto another plane of existence. He extended his right hand before him, turning it over and looking at it like it was transparent, like he could see right through it as if it didn't even exist, as if _he_ didn't exist. "I can't see me." His voice got even lower in his panic, his eyes darting about the room, staring intently into wide open spaces as if there was something lurking in the darkness, creatures of the night circling and ready to pounce. He looked up suddenly and his voice was near panic, still whispering as if he didn't want _them_ to hear, "I don't think I'm here."

Sam's eyes followed his brother's previous line of vision, nothing out of the ordinary waiting within the room. His mind took him back to the night the hellhound came for Dean, how Dean nodded to the empty space beside the dining room table and softly whispered, _hellhound… there_.

The memory the only monster now lurking in the room, the terror waiting to embrace them. _It's just a memory, not real, not happening again._ He turned his focus to his brother, desperate to reach him. "Dean, you're here, you _hear_ me? You're real and you're okay." Tears revisited him, just like that night, wetting his lashes and making his nose sniffle as he tried to smile, tried to stay strong for his big brother even as the terror swept him up in all the memories of loss. "You're back where you belong."

Emerald eyes shining like new marbles, glassy and perfect and lifeless, looked straight through him and it was the most terrifyingly empty feeling, nothing reflecting back at him. No one was home. Dean before him, but unaware, lost somewhere deep in his mind and he _had _to pull him back. He couldn't lose him, not again, not like this; not after everything they'd gone through to get this far. He reached to touch him, ground him in reality but Dean jerked away, just like he'd done when he first saw him back at the hospital.

Terror filled his raspy voice. "_No,_ don't touch me. I'll disappear."

"Dean, _no_, you won't," Sam whispered reaching out to him again.

Dean looked up, staring directly into his eyes and desperately pleading, "No, _don't_… don't touch me," as he shifted on the floor, his shoulders pressing back against the wall, feral eyes searching out an escape from this hell.

Sam didn't think they were talking that loud, and it may have just been his hunter instincts, but Bobby came barreling through the connecting door to their room.

Dean startled at the movement and frantically tried to rise, gripping the wall and trying to find his balance. Without the wall behind him he probably would have retreated all the way into the parking lot, desperate to find an escape route.

Bobby stopped and simply stared, keeping a respectable distance and waiting for one brother or the other to make the next move.

Sam stepped towards his brother and Dean flinched back. "No, I'm not real… " Shell-shocked eyes caused Sam to hesitate, the pain so palpable. "If you touch me I'll disappear. No… _don't!"_ Dean's eyes were wide-open… vulnerable and filled with so much terror amid his tears.

Sam hesitated for a moment before he purposely stepped even closer, grabbing his brother's trembling hand and holding on tight in a double-fisted grip. "Dean, see? _See?_ You're still here. I've got you, big brother. I've got you."

Dean stared at their entwined hands, his hand appearing small, buried within the monster hands of his kid brother.

Sam released his left hand from the grip and grabbed Dean's shoulder pulling his shaking brother forward and then wrapping his arms around him while Dean stubbornly fought him, mumbling and ineffectively trying to push him away before he broke down, dissolving into his tears and collapsing fully into the embrace.

Sam held on until Dean's arms reached around his chest and latched on to him, Dean's clenched fists pressing hard into his back pulling him nearer, holding on for all he was worth. Dean was heaving with unashamed tears streaming down his cheeks and wetting Sam's shoulder. After an agonizingly long period of time, his voice broke as he finally spoke, "Sammy… Sammy..," followed by a heavy sigh as he released his terrors and fully melted into Sam's arms, both their hearts pounding against their chests. His voice stuttering, as he begged his brother, "Don't give up on me, Sammy. Don't give up."

"I won't, Dean. I'm here. I'm here."

Sam turned slightly, holding Dean to his chest and rubbing his back with firm circles. He locked eyes with Bobby and the older hunter simply nodded before retreating into his own room and closing the door.

Dean didn't seem to want to break the connection once he'd found it again, almost like he feared he would again be lost or even worse, lose Sam.

Sam treasured his chance to hold his brother, to again soothe him and tell him it would be all right. To do for his big brother what Dean had always done for him, to be the caretaker, something Dean only allowed in the dead of night when the terrors threatened to overwhelm him, something he would never consent to in the glare of daylight.

"I was so lost, Sammy. I couldn't find you." In this vulnerable moment, within these four walls with just two brothers present, Dean softly spoke, the terrors that had been haunting him finally revealed. "It was so dark… I couldn't find you… I… I couldn't find _me_."

"God, Dean… I got you. You're _here…_ you're right here."

--

Morning came and with it a new day. The terrors of the night were pushed away as Dean fell into his routine. He rose and showered while Bobby went out for breakfast. The older hunter had met up with them as promised and been witness to the worst night Dean had seen since he left the hospital.

"He still showering?" Bobby asked with a squint of his eyes.

Sam absently nodded as he busied himself checking on the take-out bags, not that he cared what they held; his only concern that Dean would find something acceptable.

"You know Dean… he always takes long showers."

"Yeah."

Bobby sat down on the bed, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned into the aisle between the beds.

"Sam, c'mon. Talk to me."

"'bout what?"

"How's about last night?"

Sam was pacing before the dresser adjacent to the bathroom door.

"He had a nightmare.., that's all," he quickly declared.

"He have 'em often?" Bobby asked with concern.

Sam gasped out, "Like _that?"_

"Yeah… like that."

"No." Sam finally sat down opposite Bobby, his eyes staring down at the floor before they slowly rose and made contact. "Never like that. Bobby… " Sam's voice broke as he forced the words out, "He's gonna be all right, isn't he?"

After a moment to consider the thought, Bobby offered a half-smile along with a nod of his head. "Course he is… Sam, I've seen a lot of soldiers struggle with what they've been asked to face." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Dean's faced Hell, it's gonna take time, but he's strong. You _know_ that. Hell, he's survived this long… and lord knows, that ain't been easy."

Sam's lips were trembling, his eyes starting to tear just at the thought. "Bobby, I was so scared… so scared he'd just check out, that I'd lose him again." He worried his bottom lip, chewing on it in a nervous habit. "I didn't know what to do. How to make it right."

"Sam, you done good. You were there for him. That's all you _can_ do… just be there when he reaches out."

The bathroom door opened and Dean stepped out, his grey t-shirt sticking to his chest where the water wasn't completely dried off, his hair standing out at all angles. He quirked his mouth at the sight of the two hunters deep in conversation.

"I smell food."

Sam jumped from the bed, rustling through the bags and naming off all the choices.

Dean offered his brother a resigned sigh and a quirk of his mouth before he sat down at the small table and picked out a breakfast sandwich and some tator tots, slowly unwrapping them and settling down to eat. "Anyone got a beer?" he joked.

"Might early," Bobby scoffed.

Dean shrugged his shoulders and twisted his mouth into an amused grin. "Yeah."

Then he actually ate the entire small sandwich and three of the tator tots. Sam watched… and counted.

"So where to?" Dean finally asked, glancing from Sam to Bobby and back again to his brother.

Bobby immediately piped up, a casual comment, but the deeper meaning wasn't lost on any of them. "How about you come on back to my place? Rest up a bit before you head out on a gig."

"Sounds good. How 'bout it, Dean?"

Dean looked up and smiled, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling as he made an effort to appear normal, _sane…_ as far as he could possibly get from the memory of last night.

"Yeah, sure… sounds good."

--

It didn't take long for Sam to pack up the car. Dean carried his own bag out, but Sam was a flurry of motion, grabbing everything and stowing it in the car while Dean was in the bathroom for a finale pit stop. It annoyed the hell out of Dean, it was _his job _to pack the car, but he bit his tongue… not possessing the energy or will to get into it now. Sam meant well.

He hesitated at the doorway, staring out into the parking lot at his baby.

His gut tightened and his palms were sweating but he sucked in a deep breath and moved to the driver's door. "Hey!" He snapped his fingers at his brother and opened his palm.

Sam hesitated, unsure, but unwilling to keep travelling backwards. This was a good sign… at least that's what he told himself. "You sure?"

Dean smiled, a slight quirk of his mouth as his tongue rolled out and licked his lips in anticipation, his eyes appearing confident, sparkling at the prospect. "Yeah.., I'm sure."

Sam gave a quick look to Bobby, standing by his car in the adjacent parking spot. Bobby gave him a smile and a nod before he pulled open his driver's door. He looked directly at Dean as he spoke, "I'll lead… try to keep up."

Sam threw the keys over the roof of the car and Dean caught them with one hand. He eased into the seat and fired her up, the tape deck starting to play Sam's cassette of Garth Brooks as Sam climbed into shotgun position, his long legs bent up against the glove box in a haphazard sprawl.

_Looking back on the memory of  
The dance we shared beneath the stars above  
For a moment all the world was right  
How could I have known you'd ever say goodbye_

Dean was sitting still,staring front and center out through the windshield, his arms straight and locked with his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, his entire body tense and on alert.

Sam silently watched, wondering if Dean was having second thoughts about driving when Dean turned to him and stared, no expression betraying his thoughts, a blank slate waiting for Dean to turn on whatever emotion wished to be revealed. Finally his eyes narrowed inquisitively and his mouth quirked in a lopsided scowl.

Sam shifted uneasy, his eyes blinking from the intense scrutiny. "What?"

"_This_ what you did while I was gone? Listen to sad songs and cry in your beer?"

The flash of snark surprised him and he offered a slight smile, the old Dean ragging on him felt good.., safe, a comfort zone. _Familiar territory._

"Dean… it's just a song," he defensively offered.

"Really?" he gutturally responded. He paused as if he half-expected an answer before he provided his own, "A _country _song?" With a huff and an arch of his right eyebrow Dean sneered, "You from Texas now, cowboy?"

Sam startled and choked back a laugh, only managing to gasp out, "Dean..!?" in protest as Dean ejected the cassette and threw it out the window.

"Not in _my car_, Sammy," he growled in a deep voice, then he impatiently snapped his fingers again as he glowered at his brother. "Where are _my _tapes?"

Sam couldn't contain his grin as he fumbled with the box under the seat, presenting the jumbled collection and smiling broader as Dean ransacked the box, finally making his selection and popping it into the tape deck.

Zeppelin soon blasted out of the speakers, the intro to 'Kashmir' building in a crescendo.

A contented smile emerged on Dean's face, his eyes shining with renewed purpose. "That's more like it." He pulled out of the parking lot, picking up speed as he travelled down the blacktop following Bobby. He leaned back into his seat, his left leg casually bent up against the doorframe, his right boot pressing down harder on the gas pedal. He gave a sideways glance toward his brother as he spoke, "First rule, Sammy… driver picks the music…" with a laugh and in unison, Sam joined in, "shotgun shuts his cakehole."

TBC

_Thanks so much to everyone who is reading and special thanks to those that take the time to review. Three more chapters. Take care, B.J._


	18. I Once Knew an Angry Man

_Sorry it took a while to get this chapter up. It was a combination of things, lack of reviews making me doubt myself yet again, and then the added pressure I always put on myself to finish out a story strong, tying up all the loose ends and making sure the ride was satisfactory. I've been simultaneously working on the final three chapters to insure everything is there that needs to be. I hope I got it covered. Again, thanks for reading and I hope I don't disappoint. Take care, B.J._

--

"_Depression is rage spread thin." _– Paul Tillich

Chapter Eighteen – I Once Knew an Angry Man

Dean was better… at least some of the time. He'd gotten to the point where he finally expressed his feelings on occasion. At long last letting down some of his barriers and exposing his wounds and with that came emotion; raw, painful emotions that tore through him and brought on a growing rage.

When the intensity of his surging emotions threatened to overcome him he dug deep, summoning all his strength and determination, desperately hoping he could hold out just a bit longer and stop them in their tracks; switching over to anger at his messed up life and how he hated being out of control, his fury his last defense against totally exposing his inner terrors. He was still working up to that, knowing it was inevitable, but not yet willing to let it happen. Inching closer day by day, hoping when the moment finally came he'd be able to handle it.

_Knowing Dean and all he'd been through, I guess it fit, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with. _

Driving down the highway was the one thing that calmed him, a rare time when he most acted like himself. _Forward movement_, down the road of life leading him toward something and away from the past; helping him forget the pain… if only for a moment.

At other times the smallest obstacle would seem insurmountable and he'd get frustrated with himself which invariably would lead to him showing anger, raging against the shadows that still haunted him.

He'd rather rail against his fears then succumb to their terrors.

Unable to moderate his responses and control the fury building within, he'd give in to the helplessness and throw objects across the room or slam doors and punch walls. His knuckles became permanently swollen, dark bruises and bloody cuts marring the pale skin and giving him the appearance of a street fighter. Sometimes he would sit and silently study the patterns left imprinted on his flesh, pressing down on the bruises and tracing the lines of the cuts, almost as if to register the pain they brought, something he could control, compartmentalize and catalogue.

Sam was left to wonder if he was thinking about the scars Hell imposed, no trace left on his body, but the damage to his soul was clear, simply not visible to the human eye. Six months in Hell leaving wounds still raw and tender. His anger a means to hide from them, deny their existence with a rage that stole focus from his emotional trauma. Still trying so hard to be the man he thought Dad expected him to be, strong and tough, fearless in the face of danger.

The reality was he was terrified to let go and loose that thin sliver of control he'd managed to latch on to, so hesitant to confront the ugly truth, that he hurt and didn't know how to heal. For every surge forward he'd fall back a step or two, staggering through his life on unsteady feet, twisted and turned around and unsure which way to go, only knowing he needed to get past where he now was. Hoping if he just kept moving he'd eventually find his way clear of the pain and emerge from the maze, at long last truly free from that hell.

Dean inevitably expressed frustration with Sam when pressed to respond to his brother, but that was mostly benign, always cognizant of his feelings and forever playing the big brother, trying so hard to not involve him with his issues. He was never so kind to himself, instead getting unreasonably furious with himself… for not healing quickly enough, for understandably registering fear at strange noises or unexpected movements… for not being the Dean Winchester he used to be. For being different… damaged… _less_.

It was only when Sam refused to back off that Dean would explode at him, directing his anger at the one person who saw him as he now was, broken and lost, not allowing him his denial. Dean lashed out in hurt and shame, fear and dread. So many emotions whirling within his head and he didn't know how to tame them.

"Sam, just stop it."

"What, Dean?"

"Stop looking at me. Stop waiting for me to fall apart." He stared him straight in the eyes, a silent dare to object posed by his defiant look. "I am not a goddamn cripple."

"I know that." Sam hesitated, his voice low and soft, trying to reinforce the basic truth he saw so plainly but somehow seemed to elude his big brother. "Dean, you don't have to carry this weight all by yourself. I'm here."

Dean scoffed, eyes wide and wild, his lip trembling as he fought to hold back his true feelings. The deeper ones that scared him more than the anger, that rose up from the darkest depths of his soul. He pulled his hand down his face in a nervous attempt to ease the tension, his face frozen and unresponsive, only his eyes relaying his terror.

"Yeah… I do." The slightest tremor seemed to broach the surface before the façade again locked down; the only sign of a breach the moisture building in his eyes. "Sam, you can't fix me." He tried to smile, tentative but barely there, his eyes offering sincere thanks tempered by a resigned acceptance that he was on his own facing down his demons. "I know you want to… but I gotta do this myself. I just need to… "

"What, Dean?"

It seemed like an impossible span of time, the silence growing as Sam waited for his answer, the weight of all their emotions bearing down upon them; the gulf between them growing wider as each minute ticked by, Dean simply drifting beyond Sam's desperate grasp, retreating back into himself to stoically face his demons on his own. Dean seemed lost again, so far away, his mind traveling roads Sam couldn't even imagine. Finally he looked up, his gaze locked on his brother as he revealed a piece of himself.

"I just need to find my way back to me."

--

While Dean wanted to be close to Sam and he was; he felt a distance, a fear of revealing too much, too soon. A wall he himself erected to guard against falling apart and letting Sam support him. He knew he needed to stand on his own two feet, however difficult that might be. Bobby provided a buffer zone, a reprieve from the hurt. He could relax with Bobby, share a beer and a laugh, without the pressures Sam unknowingly imposed on him.

The beer was cold, the night air warm. Sam had taken a much needed break from baby-sitting duty and headed into town to restock their supplies and prepare for the inevitable return to hunting.

Bobby was silent, allowing Dean to simply be. It was nice for a change, a real comfort. Even his eyes only occasionally wandered across him with a curious gaze, not like Sam's constant attention. It allowed Dean to breathe.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

Dean smiled, the thought allowing him an escape, a respite from all the questions he constantly asked himself. "So what's with the alias?"

Bobby chuckled. "What? You don't think I'm smart enough to be a doc?"

The corners of Dean's mouth quirked up in amusement. "Oh, you're plenty smart there, Doc. No… I was wondering about the name… Robert _Johnson?" _His eyes danced as his dimples deepened over his smirk, fully enjoying the nod to the blues great.

They both started laughing and it felt so damn good. Bobby's eyes twinkled in joy and Dean actually felt tears of laughter forming in his eyes… such a huge relief coming from such a simple thing… a good laugh with a good friend. It wasn't even that funny, but somehow it broke the tension and once they started it was like a tidal wave that couldn't be denied, a much needed lancing of the wound and releasing of the pressure.

Bobby was sputtering, trying to get the words out. "Hell, Dean, I figured if anything would break through that silence of yours, then maybe Mr. Johnson could."

"True… " Dean offered his beer bottle in a salute. "Just figured you more for the Willie Nelson or John Wayne type, y' know?"

"Too common… And who ain't heard of John Wayne?"

"Well, you coulda always gone with his real name… _Marion_." Dean cracked up, the laughs almost making his gut hurt.

"Well, I ain't ever gonna go that far, boy…. A man has his pride."

The quiet resumed and they both stared out into the night, silently drinking their beers. Dean was on his third when he again spoke. "Hey, Bobby?"

Bobby turned all attention back to his friend. His eyes comforting as they squinted into the light on the small patio they were sitting on. "Yeah?"

"On the amulet… I know you said before it was a protection charm, but what else you know about it?"

"Not much. Got it in a swap for some guns. Guy just said it was powerful… figured John might make use of it… " His voice lowered as he further explained his reasoning. "Wanted to make sure he kept comin' home to you boys."

Dean grimaced, still slightly tender about how he came to own it instead of his dad. He loved it from the first instant he saw it, and coming from Sammy made it even more special, but he knew it was originally intended for his dad. It always brought a measure of guilt from him.

"You have any idea why the demon didn't just take it?"

"You mean, why she didn't take it from the property room?"

"Yeah… or why not just rip it off my chest? Why'd she need my permission?"

"Don't rightly know." Bobby scrubbed at the scruff on his chin, his eyes tender but searching as they roamed over the younger hunter. "Bigger question is why didn't you give it up? If it would've saved you some of the pain, why not just let it go?"

"You'd trust a demon?"

Bobby shirked his head. "Not normally, but given the givens… I might've risked it."

"I couldn't, Bobby… I just couldn't." Dean gave a slight rise to his brows, a gentle response as he drew in a breath. His eyes fixed on Bobby as the older hunter simply waited.

When it appeared he wasn't going to continue, Bobby prodded, "Why?"

Dean looked up with those childlike eyes, hurt and open and sensitive. "'Cause it was all I had."

"All you had?" Bobby softly repeated.

Dean looked up with eyes brimming with tears, happy or sad, Bobby couldn't tell. Maybe a mix of both, for all he knew. They were joined by a tentative smile, sweet and almost innocent.

Dean choked on the emotion of his words as he softly added, "All I had left that was mine…. that connected me to Sammy."

--

Dean insisted we take a case. I knew it was coming, but I still wasn't prepared, truly scared it was too soon. I picked the most benign case I could find, a simple salt and burn. Little did I know…

Dean seemed drawn to the fire, lost in the flame as it sparked up from the match, and then his hand started to shake so badly it went out. It took him three tries before he managed to drop a lit match into the grave. Then he almost followed it in, losing his balance and teetering precariously over the hole, mesmerized by the flame as it crackled and danced. I grabbed his arm and pulled him back and surprisingly he didn't fight me, protest I was mother-henning him, or even shake me off. He simply allowed me to steady him and then it was over. He stepped back from the grave and side by side we watched it burn. He was tense, but he seemed better.

I vowed to take it even slower on the next gig.

--

Much too soon after they left the hospital, Sam's words of comfort and encouragement seemed to fall on deaf ears. Dean dutifully listened and took it to heart in the beginning, perhaps simply too tired to offer any resistance, but slowly and surely as time moved on and he still trembled within his own skin, paralyzed with fear, he'd turned that fear into anger. Something he could grab hold of and rail against, a target for all his fury, bitter and fierce and self-loathing.

It was hard to watch him be so hard on himself, always demanding more than he was able to give, forgetting he was still recuperating and expecting the perfection he'd always before managed, not yet able to forgive his perceived shortcomings.

_Christ, Dean… would you cut yourself a break?_

Sam was reduced to standing on the sidelines, observing the battle as it unfolded… and ducking any incoming projectiles. After one of his temper tantrums, Dean would turn quiet, _pensive_, turning all his rage inward and berating himself for being so damn weak. It didn't seem to matter how many times Sam told him how proud he was that he was still fighting, that he was a _survivor_.

Dean didn't see it; he simply couldn't accept that he was human.

Try as he may, he wasn't the superhero warrior their dad had always demanded. He was a soldier who'd been to Hell and back and was still recovering from the worst torture possible, most of it beyond comprehension, yet Dean refused to accept that.

Refusing to admit defeat, he fought back against everything that stood in his way.

_That's good, Dean… you keep fighting. It's what you do best. _

Sam was relieved he didn't give up… or give in. That the old Dean was still battling his way back to who he was supposed to be. Still, it was excruciating to watch, but Sam slowly adjusted to his role in this drama… to watch and wait for the rare moments when Dean lowered his shields and allowed him in.

--

With everything that had gone down since the hellhound first came for Dean, Sam harbored his own anger… at his failure to save Dean from going to Hell in the first place, at what those evil sonsuvbitches had inflicted on his brother over the course of six long months, crimes of war unspeakable and unconscionable. And most devastating, that he couldn't ease Dean's transition back into the land of the living with a balm of love and admiration, that he was incapable of erasing the horrors Dean still struggled with on a daily basis.

Dean only alluded to what had happened in vague terms, at other times protesting he couldn't remember… but his eyes would flash the unbearable truth and then the anger would lash out fierce and unruly, "Why would I _want_ to remember, Sam? Why the hell would you want to know what it was like?"

Hard-pressed to give a rational answer, Sam thought maybe it would help Dean move past the trauma, to talk about what happened… _then again_, after witnessing how he shook from the memories when they refused to be denied, _maybe not_. Sam honestly didn't know. He prayed every day for the courage to keep fighting for his brother and the wisdom to know when to push and when to back off.

Sam was working on instinct now, on what he knew of his brother and his ways, on the endless research that helped explain the intricacies of post-traumatic stress disorder and the long journey back Dean faced. A road only Dean could travel, but Sam would be there every step of the way, silently watching and ready to catch him if he stumbled, offering an arm up if allowed. Sam knew he would be there when Dean reached the finish, however long that took, ready to welcome the conquering hero as he returned to his life.

It sure wasn't going to be easy, but Dean had never retreated from a challenge.

The road to what lie ahead was uncertain and this was hardly a textbook case, this was dealing with a fractured mind and a broken spirit, something all the books in the world couldn't fully explain, _especially_ when the subject in question was Dean.

Dean never did play by the rules.

But that didn't mean the forces in his life weren't determined to break him, conspiring to bend him to their rules and make him conform.

He was engaged in the fight of his life, and he was not yet at full-strength, still struggling every day to conquer the hell that kept him locked deep in his mind. And Hell was a bitch; unrelenting, barreling through his defenses and taking him down for the count, using every trick in the book to crush his spirit, but Dean refused to surrender. He was a man who had already borne so much pain throughout his life, persevering through all his trials, the epitome of courage since he was just four years old; he wasn't going to let Hell best him.

All the explanations of symptoms and the standard treatments for PTSD gave Sam a springboard to leap off of in his quest to help his brother, but Dean's unique circumstances clearly presented unparalleled challenges.

Try as he may to help, Sam was still on a learning curve. Some days Dean was more open, revealing fragments of what had happened… maybe all he could remember, or bear to tell. Sam always intently listened, even when his ears begged to go deaf, even when his stomach knotted and he only wanted to stop the words and the pain they brought to his brother's eyes.

"Sam… every nightmare you could ever imagine… it just doesn't compare. It can't." Dean grimaced trying in vain to find a smile to dispel the anguish he was feeling, a desperate plea for some sense of normalcy, a last ditch effort to deny what he was about to say and recapture the stoic façade that so often failed him now. "I lived through it… and I… _God, Sam_, I can't even _begin_ to describe it."

"I know… Dean, I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

And then Dean would simply fade away, close his eyes to block out the pictures in his head before he would gradually grow anxious with the quiet and nervously fidget, finally ending their talk by running as fast as his casual stroll would allow into the bathroom, closing the door and turning on the shower, remaining hidden in his moisture wrapped sanctuary for nearly an hour, sometimes longer.

Finally reappearing with a shake of his dampened hair and a shudder like a dog spraying off water and he would ease back to himself… a quieter version of himself as the haggard look would temporarily dissipate and he could pretend again. Make-believe that everything was as it should be. Tamp down his anger at the cruelty of fate and destiny and all the other crap that swirled through his mind to explain what had happened to him.

--

"_Winchester… you escaped Hell? Impressive. Can't escape me though, not as long as you let that monster brother of yours live. He needs to die. Either you do it or I will."_

"_The hell you will, you evil sonuvabitch… you touch one hair on my brother's head and I will kill you, YOU HEAR ME?"_

"_Ah, Dean… Dean… just how crazy are you?" The laughter rose up, taunting and vile, roaring like a lion in the wild ready to tear its prey limb for limb. "Already dead here."_

….. "Dean?"

_Gordon invaded his personal space, hovering over him as his second set of teeth descended, his strong hands gripping Dean's shoulders, holding him down, immobile and defenseless. His eyes savored the terror squirming beneath his grip as he leaned in to sink his fangs into the sweet expanse of neck._

_Dean struggled, unable to get any leverage, a rag doll completely under Gordon's power, closing his eyes to the sight and praying, unable to fight and simply waiting for the blood to start flowing. He was so tired of the blood._

….. "Dean? DEAN!"

The voice was so familiar and it pulled him back, anchoring him and he opened his eyes with a start. Another drab motel room, dark green with wood trim… so not his white room.

"Huh?"

"You all right? You drifted off." Sam was standing over him, his eyes studying every move like always, always so attentive.

_It would be nice, if it wasn't so damn annoying._

"Yeah, I'm fine." Dean wiped the sleep from his eyes, massaging away the terror with one quick swipe. His eyes moved to the TV still playing the late night monster flick of the week, Godzilla vs. Mothra. "I say anything?" He tried to stay casual, deny the coiling of his gut at what might slip out in the throes of one of his recurring nightmares.

"Nah, nothing… you _sure_ you're all right?"

"I'm _fine,_ Sam."

The anger was clear, definable, undeniable. All he had left to protect his fragile heart when he felt himself starting down the road to ruin, a road fraught with ruts and rough surfaces, potholes big enough to swallow him up.., Alice tumbling down into the realm of the White Rabbit, forever lost in a maze of confusion and doubt.

--

Bobby studied the younger Winchester, debating what to say, how to say it. It was nice having the boys around the house, even if it was strained, like they were all trying to walk on a rickety old walkway strung across a deep ravine, jockeying for position with each trying to take point and protect the others behind him. The wood in the planks riddled with wood-rot and the ropes stringing them together weathered and frayed from too much sun and rain, the entire precarious foot-bridge one step away from plummeting into the canyon below.

It was dizzying being on such a treacherous path to begin with, but the storms were brewing and night was coming and it was a hell of a long way to the other side.

"Sam, give it time."

"TIME? All you ever talk about is _time._ How long, Bobby?" The anger erupted, frustration and worry colliding as hope and reason scurried away in the aftermath.

Bobby bristled at the attitude, his own nerves frayed and ready to snap. "As long as it takes," he barked back.

"Hey? Guys?" the low voice softly intruded.

Dean was standing in the doorway, his face pained from stumbling across another one of their conversations, the tension in the room dragging him down deeper into his anxiety, his brows furrowed as he tried to regain his balance, keep an even keel, already feeling the pressure to get past his trauma and simply move on like a good soldier.

Even though they told him they understood, that it would just take time, he was finding it increasingly frustrating, especially when he sensed their mounting frustrations with _him…_ with his inability to heal. He wanted to be whole, he hated being a burden. It was a vicious cycle, and he felt like he was going in circles, spinning faster and faster and unable to find the exit from this nightmare.

What he really wanted was to get back in the hunt, back to his life, even though he knew it was too soon. _A simple salt and burn almost did you in… How the hell you gonna handle a real job? _

Bikes and horses kept popping into his mind, even though he'd never had either as a kid.

Every time he thought about a job his chest tightened and those damn butterflies took up residence in his gut.

With a steely determination that had always kept him on track before, he decided it wasn't going to get any easier sitting on the sidelines… letting the anticipation mount, threatening to grow an anthill into a mountain. He simply needed to do it.

"You find us a job yet?" he asked, his eyes wandering from his brother to Bobby.

Both lowered their eyes to the floor.

_Yeah, right, the friggin' floor is so goddamn interesting!_

--

When he first left the hospital he'd paused on the front steps, his hand raised up to shield his eyes from the blinding sun. The tension was thick like the fog in San Francisco bay on a cool autumn morning and both Bobby and Sam had looks of near panic, which in reality was probably more concern as they watched his reaction to being set free… how he hesitated, leery of the unknown.

Everything was heightened then, his skin prickling like a thousand needles prodding him, pushing him down the steps and back to his life, his hands literally shaking as he grasped the iron railing to steady his way. The drugs had long sense filtered from his system, but he still felt groggy and weak, trembling deep inside with apprehension for what lie ahead… and how he'd handle it.

He hated the hospital, hated being confined, but his white room had also been a sanctuary for a time, a place to catch his breath… that is until the good doctor started in with her Nurse Ratched impersonation. Then it truly was Hell again… a prison, if not of blood and bone, of lies and deception.

Now he was free, physically… if not emotionally and certainly not mentally. Those shackles would take a lot longer to break free of. Even as the sun beat down on his body, warming his skin and telling him he was a free man, he felt the bindings tightening around his gut.

"Dean?"

"Huh?"

"You ready?"

"Yeah… sure… "

He walked down the steps, back into the real world, out on his own, aside from their watchful eyes.

Every word, every look he found himself wondering what they really meant, if he was missing something, because he wasn't as sharp as he used to be. His emotions and his thinking were still jumbled and so damn raw and exposed. He told himself it was the effects of the drugs, weeks of being pumped full of god-knows-what, but the truth was that was only a piece of his fractured puzzle, a convenient excuse he used so he didn't have to own up to being damaged, his mind fried by the fires of Hell and all that imposed.

Every time he wandered into a conversation between Bobby and Sam there was an awkward silence before they would include him in some meaningless chatter. _God, we've never had such mindless chit-chat before. _

And yet a part of him, small but vocal, didn't want to know what their concerns were, what they whispered in the dark about him because he feared it was all true… he wasn't right and just maybe, he'd never be right again and that scared the hell out of him.

--

Dean had another bad night. He slept in late after tossing and turning most of the night, the nightmares mounting an impressive assault; waiting until he half-thought he'd conquered them to rear their fugly head and again knock him on his ass. It seemed it was always something; every time he ventured forward, reality would bitch-slap him back into place, as if he wasn't ever meant to recapture who he'd been, like he was forever destined to being less… hopeless… _worthless_.

He'd stayed up late to start with, reminiscing over a few beers with Bobby, talking about hunts with his dad, and with Bobby, and most especially with Sam; early hunts when the boys were still learning the trade, making minor missteps and facing their fears for the first time. Somehow it helped to remember those times and how he didn't let his fears deter him, how he'd followed his dad's lead and conquered them, learning to file the doubts away and do his job as expected.

If it was only so easy _now…_ these demons and his memories of Hell a thousand-fold worse than what he'd faced and triumphed over as a teen.

Sam had stayed up awhile, joining in the discussions before excusing himself, a quiet nod to Bobby and a "Goodnight" to his brother and he'd left them to delve deeper into the past and how their friendship had grown through the years.

Dean appreciated the one-on-one time with Bobby, easing back into familiar territory and reaffirming their close bond. It felt good to relax over a beer and tell tales of better times.

Bobby always made him feel good about himself, even when he was chastising him and flat out telling him he was a moron. The love was always so clear and it felt good. He knew his dad loved him, never for a second doubted that, but it was at times harder with Dad. He'd always felt the pressure to not disappoint him, to be the man he expected him to be. He didn't analyze it, nit-pick it to death… whether it was his dad's demands or his own need to not fall short.

Whatever it was, that extra pressure was thankfully missing with Bobby. Bobby let him be… and accepted him as he was and that gave him permission to accept himself too, as best he could. Right now, he most needed that. Even Sam held him to a higher level, expecting him to be the role-model older brother he'd always looked up to. Dean hated putting that on Sam; again, maybe it was all his own screwed up thinking. Whatever it was it filled him with the weight of his responsibility, and he seriously wondered if he could meet such high expectations. He sure as hell wasn't a shrink and he certainly didn't spend a lot of time trying to decipher all the finer points. It was a casual observation, or more importantly, simply how he felt. With Bobby he didn't feel the need to justify his failings, to him or to himself.

Somehow that made it easier… especially when he chose to admit to his fears. The decision to tackle his fears head on didn't come lightly, instead fraught with constant self-doubt and trepidation as he wavered between a full-on assault and a barricade and hunker-down mentality. The thing is, his experience told him these demons weren't going to shrink back into the depths or be denied. Sooner or later he'd have to face them. He could either do it on his terms or wait for them to catch him unaware.

He knew it was always preferable to be the hunter instead of the hunted.

"Bobby?" He started and then stopped, his eyes conveying his growing anxiety. He so wanted to talk this out, acknowledge the damn elephant in the room and move on. Still he hesitated, unsure if he was ready… if he'd _ever _be ready.

It scared the crap out of him, how truly terrified he was, but fear had never been the enemy; his true enemy had always been the fear of not doing what he knew he should do… of failing to do his job.

Bobby silently waited; his full attention on the young man before him. A gentle smile and a comforting glint in his eyes reassuring him it was safe to proceed.

"Bobby… is it ever gonna get easier?"

"You mean the nightmares and such?"

"Yeah, I guess… " Dean nervously laughed, his mouth quirking as his dimples flashed for a second, his arms wrapped around his chest, holding on. He shook his head before looking up and continuing, "Just everything, y' know?" Dean took in a deep breath, his eyes shining with glistening tears, just the thoughts bringing on a deep well of emotions, and with the emotions a heavy pain. Sometimes he felt like the weight of all his memories would drag him down to the depths of the ocean and he'd never resurface; simply ending up at the bottom with all the shipwrecks, broken and useless. He locked his gaze to his old friend, tired of the constant struggle and decided he wasn't willing to hold off any longer. "I just feel scared all the time… like I never know what's gonna come around the bend and knock me on my ass. I just wish… "

"_What_, Dean?" he softly asked.

"I just wish I could feel in control again… " He searched Bobby's eyes for wisdom, for guidance, for _something_ to ease the ever present fear slowly twisting his gut into a pretzel.

Bobby narrowed his eyes and his hand rubbed across his whiskers as he worked his jaw muscles debating how to phrase his response. "Dean, it _will _get easier. I can promise you that. Time heals a lot of wounds, but the truth is you've _never_ been in control. No one is." He paused to let his words settle, hating to be the one to point out another tragic fact in their messed up lives. "The best we can hope for is the guts to keep moving forward." His eyes embraced the younger man, a lilt of confidence breaching the surface and he smiled. "And son, you've never been shy of guts."

Dean silently sat there, his eyes glimmering as the truth according to Bobby filtered in, wise words that illuminated his world. His lips trembled as he faced that truth, his smile attempting to regain some footing as he slowly nodded. "I used to _think_ I was in control… _Hell..,_ for years I believed Dad was."

Bobby smiled at the thought. "Yeah… Well as good as your daddy was, he knew it was all a crap shoot. Guess that's what scared him the most about you boys."

Dean nervously laughed and rubbed both his hands down his face, his fingers wiping away his tears. "Yeah."

"All you can do is be prepared. And that's what your daddy did best. He got both you and Sam ready for this fight. You're strong, Dean, stronger than you know."

Dean nodded dejectedly, like he couldn't believe, like it was more false hope. "So why do I feel so weak?" He swallowed and forced the words out. "So scared?"

Bobby's voice was gruff and matter-of-fact, typical Bobby. "'Cause you ain't dumb. There's evil out there and it took you down hard, but you're still here, Dean. And you'll keep fighting." He offered a sly smile. "It's in your blood, boy."

Dean took time to ponder that thought; somewhere deep inside knowing the truth of it, but finding it a comfort to have Bobby express it. Especially the confidence Bobby always showed in his abilities. He'd gone this far, he had one more revelation to make. "Bobby…, y' know, when they were torturing me… when I thought I couldn't go on anymore, I heard something… somehow I _knew_ something… I don't know if it was real or where the hell it came from… "

"What, Dean? What'd you hear?"

"Some sort of story about silver and being refined… how the heat purified it… and… "

"And what?" he softly whispered, intent eyes watching for clues inside his head.

"Bobby… I dunno… this feels so Roma Downey… " His nervous laughter again attempted to hide his pain, just a gentle chuckle to release the pressure. "Bobby, it _felt_ like someone was beside me, just out of sight, but like this strong presence was there… y' know? Watching over me… protecting me."

"What kind of presence?"

"God, this sounds crazy… but it was like God… like _God_ was watching over me." Dean looked up and his eyes were lost and confused, swimming around unfocused. "I don't _believe_ in God, so why would I think that? I mean… of all the things I felt and saw when I was in Hell, nothing would make me think of God… I mean, _nothing_… but I did. How do you explain that?"

"The mind gives you what you need in times of stress."

"But, God?" he incredulously responded. "I mean, I could understand it if I was angry at God for leaving me there, for being an ass and not doing more here on earth… I mean I _am_ angry..," He paused and drew in a breath before continuing, "Lot of good it does, 'cause God don't exist… I _know_ that." Dean's mouth twisted and his eyes intently stared through Bobby, digging deep into his soul to pull out the answer. "This doesn't make sense, Bobby. Why would my mind try to comfort me with God, of all things?"

"You said you heard a story about silver being refined?"

"Yeah.., _so?"_

"You ever hear it before?" Bobby growled out.

Dean raised his left brow and half-attempted a laugh, unsure where Bobby was going with this conversation, but somehow knowing he wasn't going to like the final destination. "No, never."

"It's from the bible… the story of how God watches over man, and how the fires refine and purify steel. How it's pulled from the fire when it's at its strongest, how if left any longer it would be destroyed." Bobby pulled down the brim of his dirty trucker cap and intently returned Dean's gaze as his raspy voice explained, "It all comes down to timing. The story goes that the steel is released from the flames when it reflects the image of God."

Dean simply stared at his friend, his mind trying to best wrap itself around this bizarre information, his mouth falling open in a gasp. "Bobby, it's just a story though, right?"

"Dunno." Bobby gave a quirk of his head. "But you _were_ pulled from the pit and we can't explain it."

"But _God?_ That's a mighty big stretch. You don't believe in this crap, do you?"

"Don't rightly know… " He nodded his head as it slightly quirked to the side. "Maybe."

Dean exploded in anger, startling Bobby with the force of his reaction. "NO! No way God is interested in me. You're losing it, Bobby."

"Stranger things have happened."

"So, what? The truth's out there?" Dean waved his arms in a wild pattern. "God's been out there all this time? Waiting for what? Me?" he scowled, his face set in denial, his jaw firm and locked, his eyes fierce and determined, absolute in the knowledge he'd faced when he was four. "No, Bobby. No way."

"Then how you gonna explain it?"

"It was Sam… and that ritual you found… had to be."

Bobby shook his head in the negative. "Wouldn't have worked. We messed up there."

"What? Sam said… "

"Dean, trust me… it weren't Sam."

"Then who, Bobby? And don't you dare say God!" Dean paused and slowly lifted his head, his eyes again showing confusion, resignation from behind long lashes. "What could've done it?"

"That's the million dollar question."

"Don't do this, Bobby."

Concern tempered his voice, "Do what, Dean?"

"Don't make this into some religious experience. It wasn't God, YOU HEAR ME?"

Bobby scowled at him, his eyes bearing down upon him. "Kinda hard not to."

Dean was pacing now, nervous energy radiating off of him. A thought hit him and he excitedly offered, "Maybe it was the trickster? That's possible, right?"

"And why would he?"

"Why the hell he do anything?" Dean was shaking, increasingly agitated and worried. "You weren't there, he likes to play games. Hell, Bobby, he killed me a hundred times just to see Sam suffer. Maybe this is just another game to him?"

Bobby was a contrast in calm, returning each desperate volley with a smooth answer. "Then why haven't we seen him? He don't play if there's nothin' in it for him."

Dean smirked, his dimples dancing as he struggled to stay ahead of the pain. "He likes me… he said so, maybe… "

Bobby cut in, growling his response, "He done it out of the goodness of his heart? 'Cause you're such a loveable sort?"

"Maybe. You said it, yourself…" Dean offered a cock-eyed smirk. "Stranger things have happened."

"Dean, I know you don't want to hear it, but there's only one being powerful enough to rip you outta Hell."

Dean was pacing now, his face contorting from the pain, his shoulders hunched with the weight of the world, the tension in his back ready to snap him in two.

"No, Bobby… just no!"

"Dean… "

Dean cut him off, his eyes conveying all his fury. "I don't believe in God… and I thought you didn't either."

"God? I dunno, might just have to rethink that… _considering." _Bobby straightened up, his voice firm and sure, his eyes relaying all the compassion he could muster. "Alls I know is I believe in _you,_ Dean. However this went down, you're gonna get through it. I guess that's all we can know for sure."

"Yeah… maybe." Dean shifted, still uneasy, but settling down, breathing through his panic at being in any way connected to God, saddled with the knowledge when he knew it was impossible. He sat down dejectedly, silently staring at his boots before raising his head up and looking at Bobby with hooded eyes, his voice low, but sincere. "Thanks, Bobby… y' know.., I just wish I could be so sure."

"I know… it's one of your charms, you idjit… _and_ a major source of aggravation."

Dean furrowed his brows at the way Bobby's face scrunched up. "What's that?"

Bobby's voice was gruff, but the love was again present. "That you don't see how strong you are."

--

He didn't know what the date was, what occasion brought about the smells coming from the kitchen. Oh, sure, Bobby cooked on occasion, mac and cheese, hamburger helper, steak on the grill, but the smells seemed different, foreign. He'd slept in later than he had since they'd arrived, his late night with Bobby and those pesky nightmares taking their toll, so it was almost noon when he turned the corner and entered the dining room. The room looked downright festive. All the books had been removed for probably the first time in three years and stacked on the floor and a faded tablecloth now covered the dining room table. Fancy matching dishes he'd never before seen were placed about the table in four place settings.

He heard humming from the kitchen, the tone low, but definitely female. He quirked his brow at the possibility that Bobby had a lady friend and turned the corner, pausing in the doorway to gasp at the sight before him: Sam was mashing potatoes, Bobby was carving a turkey, and Ellen was stirring something on the stove. His eyes blinked at the Norman Rockwell scene, freeze-framing the moment for the future when his hazy brain might be able to digest the incongruities laid out before him.

Ellen turned and when she saw him her face lit up, she dropped the spoon into the pot with a loud clank and rushed to him, grabbing him in a bear hug and whispering in his ear, "Dean… you're sure a sight for sore eyes."

He hugged her back, her love and welcome another comfort that he could use, a maternal concern that was something he'd sorely been missing. He grinned as Sam and Bobby offered him huge smiles of their own and he seriously wondered if this was all another demented dream, tensing slightly and waiting for the wrecking ball to come smashing through the kitchen window or the floor to cave in depositing them all back into Hell.

He felt his old self surge to the surface, his best cocky smirk finding its way back home and he couldn't resist adding a little levity to the tender scene. "I stumble into Leave It To Beaver or somethin'? Or you expecting Martha Stewart?"

Bobby growled out with his own brand of a smirk, "She ain't invited… this here's just for family."

"It's Thanksgiving, Dean," Sam offered in joyous explanation as he moved past him with the mashed potatoes now served up in a china bowl.

"We've got a lot to be thankful for," Ellen added as she released her hold with a last tender pat and handed him a bottle of wine sitting on the table. "Here, open the wine."

--

They sat down to lunch and the spread was impressive, turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans with bacon sprinkled on top, and fresh baked rolls. Everything one could desire in a Thanksgiving feast.

Dean even felt like eating, somehow the warm atmosphere and the down-home cooking igniting his taste buds again. His eyes basked in the glow of having his family surrounding him, the laughter and joy filling the room with a pleasant ease that pushed aside all worries for at least one afternoon.

Ellen asked if Bobby wanted to offer grace, and when he stumbled over his reply she huffed in response, "Well, I guess it's up to me then." She bowed her head and started to speak, "Thank you, lord, for our blessings. For bringing Dean back to us. For giving us this day to give thanks."

Dean tensed at the prayer, at being singled out. His eyes remained open, silently wandering around the table to observe his family, Sam had his head bent and his eyes squeezed closed, Bobby was silently sitting with his eyes looking down toward his empty plate, Ellen had a smile on her face as she offered up her prayer, only Dean seemed ill at ease, waiting for it all to be over so he could eat.

Dean waited until all their plates were overflowing with food, until the mood was calm and quiet and peaceful. "Hey, Ellen… you believe in God?" His brow quirked as he observed her, honestly trying to find something to steady him, but still believing this God-thing wasn't it… still the thought kept pestering him as he searched for answers.

She looked up and smiled, "Not sure, hun, but having you back is a miracle, it's only polite to give thanks."

With another quirk of his lips he dropped it, not really wanting to pursue it further. It still left a sour taste in his mouth, even considering the remote possibility, but this was too good of a day to dwell on it. Lately he'd had too few good days and despite the God issue, he was finally feeling more at ease, more like himself. He smiled as he studied his family before him, devouring their meal amid laughter and smiles and warm feelings. He gave his brother his most expectant look, the smirk reaching all the way to his eyes. "Hey, Sammy? There is pie, right?_"_

TBC

_Reviews would be lovely if you are so inclined. Regardless, next two chapters will post fairly quickly. Later, B.J._


	19. By the Grace of God, or Whatever

"_Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is one element of faith."_ – Paul Tillich

Chapter Nineteen – By the Grace of God, or _Whatever_

It was quiet.., still.., not even the gentle movement of air disturbing the tomb of silence. All he could hear was his own heart beating, the thumping getting louder and louder as his panic rose. He was alone, had been for some time… a _very_ long time. His muscles ached from inactivity, the hard press of his bed like a block of concrete beneath his back. The pressure points covered in dark bruises, tender and raw; his own body's weight an instrument of torture, constantly pressing down.

He shifted, tried to find a spot that was more comfortable but the bindings on his wrists and ankles prevented him from moving much; the hot metal scorching his flesh and he gritted his teeth to hold back his screams. His unbridled squalls only served to fuel their passion when he could no longer withhold his anguish, but he refused to give them the satisfaction, besides… it did no good. Any noise was swallowed up in the bowels of Hell, his screams merely wasted energy… no relief possible… no rescue imminent… no one was coming.

He was alone… had been and would be… for ever and always…

He only wanted to escape this torment, to die or at least close his eyes and fall into blessed sleep, drift away into the nothingness, but that wasn't allowed… was _never_ allowed.

His mind was on fire, constantly sparking as it misfired, desperate to remember _why_ he was here, what terrible thing he must have done to deserve torment such as this. No answers came and the fog grew thicker, wrapping him in a heavy muck that would almost be a comfort if not for how cold and empty it left him. He wanted to remember something… _anything._ Good.., bad.., who he was.., why he was here.., why they had gone and left him here… _all alone_.

Why no one cared.

Why no one was coming.

He didn't want _them_ to return for he knew what that would mean; torture and torment unimaginable, _unbearable_ except he did bear it, over and over again. Suffering in silence or crying out in screams of total anguish and despair, _no difference_; both only brought more pain.

He knew _exactly_ what they would do to him when they returned. Every last gruesome detail was imprinted in his mind from too many sessions. _That_ he couldn't forget. The path they took when they hurt him all too familiar. Whatever they delivered, no matter how creative they got, would _never_ be enough to end this. He knew he would survive it, _had _survived it countless times before… as shocking as that was.

It didn't matter that his tears ran like acid from his shattered eyes or his body throbbed in agony as it was ripped to bloody shreds. They only mocked him when he could no longer contain himself and begged for mercy. None was offered or allowed.

When he'd been alone for too long, when he could no longer bear the vacuous silence, when he felt himself slipping.., losing that frail grip on reality and falling headlong into the bottomless black pit, he'd beg for them to return and begin anew. His soul bellowed out into the depths, screaming for someone, _anyone_, even if their presence only promised more pain… at least that was _something_… The pain connecting him to his life, proving he was still alive… or undead… or whatever the hell he turned out to be.

Even the torture was better than being buried alive, entombed in this cold, dark prison, this white room that was void of everything that made him human.

He was so fearful of forever being lost within that tomb of silence he was willing to pay whatever price they demanded, fully knowing his visitors' delight was only brought forth from seeing him writhe in agony, twisting beneath their sadistic touch as they eviscerated the shell of his body.

He told himself the pain was _necessary_.

By giving them what they wanted he somehow got what he most needed.

And he _needed_ this…

He knew it was sick.., twisted.., and so far from normal he'd never be able to explain it; so he buried it, shoving the truth down deep into that voracious black hole, denying it even to himself. It was simply a nasty nightmare that assaulted him in the depths of slumber, a falsehood his mind made up to try and take back control over his fate.

His warped mind somehow claiming ownership of his torture as if he had wanted it.

No one would ever ask for _that…_

_No one…_

_It was perverted… wrong… _but that's what they'd done to him, turned him around until he didn't know what he wanted or why.

They'd finally won the fight by molding him into a freak unable to function on his own, someone so desperate to not be alone he would choose torture over one more minute of solitude in that empty white room.

_Please… I'm ready… please come back. _

He bit the inside of his cheek even as the words released, part of him wanting to hold out a while long, thinking that he should… that he _could_… but the vocal part no longer cared and screamed out for companionship, tears ripped from his pleading eyes before the torment had even begun… the emotional toll from his solitude worse than the promise of the whip.

A hand touched his shoulder and on instinct he shrunk back from the touch before realizing with a start that he could move. Something snapped within him and he grabbed hold of his chance, lashing out in fear and loathing, at _them_.., at _himself_… With his wrists no longer bound he was finally free to fight back. He landed a blow and felt the monster give way and it energized him. He leaped forth, arms flailing; all his anger pent up for so long now exploding out with this rare chance to unleash his fury.

He got in three good blows and it felt good… so _damn good_. His heart thumped even louder as he found a piece of himself, the part that refused to surrender to their will, that would _never_ give in or give up. He welcomed the shadow of the man he used to be, a warrior who would fight until his very last breath.

He barreled over the monster, knocking him to the floor and landing on top of him, his weight holding him there. He was finally back in control, his heart beating so hard in his chest he thought it might burst, but he didn't care, he only wanted to fight and fight and keep on fighting. He struck back against every demon that had tortured him over the months, pummeling the monster and coming more alive as each blow found its mark.

Strong hands gripped his forearms thwarting his movements, but he only increased his efforts, determined to not fall back into the blackness that had nearly claimed him. A familiar voice called out to him through the bog but he didn't have time to listen, all focus on this fight… the fight of his life. He continued to strike back, time at last answering to him as he railed against the monster beneath him.

"Dean!? Wait! STOP IT!"

He wouldn't stop struggling; he couldn't, not once he again found the will to fight. His body instinctively lashing out in a violent spasm, a base reflex against all the months of torture, all his fight stored up and finally released in a flurry of movement.

"Dean… stop! Please.., DEAN!"

He trembled, deep waves of confusion and regret rolling through his body as his eyes flew open, furiously blinking and trying to focus through his tears. He gasped out several heavy breaths, his eyes flittering about the room, his mind trying to process what he saw and determine if it was real or illusion. His head was light and dizzy, his thoughts jumbled like before with the tension again constricting his gut. He suddenly froze as his life snapped into crystalline focus, glancing about the motel room… _not_ his white room. The white room of Hell long gone… He escaped there long ago, in body if not in mind.

His eyes connected with his brother's. Sammy looked so scared, the dark shadows playing across his face deepening the lines of worry. His voice had reverted to a whisper, a desperate plea for his brother to not leave him, tears glistening in his searching eyes, "Dean? Dean?"

Dean choked out a cough, his throat constricting as he fought to still the tremor coursing through his chest, then up into his throat as a lump lodged there. His lips trembled as he locked his jaw.

His fingers gripped the front of his brother's tee, clawing the fabric as he bunched it in his fists, shaking uncontrollably before consciously peeling his fingers off of the material and flattening his hand against Sam's chest, pressing his open palm against him as if to really feel him, real and alive beneath him. His brother's heart wilding thumping beneath his questing hand, still not quite believing he was here, _alive_ in the real world. He was desperate to reassure himself it truly was Sam… Sammy was alive and with him. He wasn't alone… _he wasn't alone!_

When he finally accepted that reality he rolled off and slumped beside him on the floor, sprawled haphazard with his back pressed firm against the side of his bed, his chest heaving in and out. His hands scrubbed down his face, furious with the moisture he found there and how his hands still shook, all emotion ebbing from his spent body as the adrenaline coursed through his veins.

His eyes conveyed all his pain, every horrific moment from six months of torture displayed within them, this new torment and guilt only adding to his bitter feelings of failure.

"'m sorry, Sammy… 'm sorry."

"Dean, it's okay… it was just a nightmare. It's okay."

The silence was stifling and he only wanted to drown out the quiet, but it was still suffocating him, the weight of that place still bearing down upon him. His gut twisted in on itself, like so many times past, torn between then and now, lost and so damn confused. So tired of it all. So weary of this constant struggle… this endless journey.

In frustration his fist pounded the thin carpet, his voice rough as he spoke, "God… I thought I was past this."

"Dean… you'll _get _past this… You will… I _promise_," Sam stammered, his face registering so much empathy, so much hurt for his brother. It was obvious he wanted to say more, was struggling with how to phrase it, his eyes mired in anguish, somehow taking on all the pain reflected in his brother's eyes. He gripped his lower arm, a firm show of support, wanting to maintain a connection. "Look, Dean… maybe… "

"What?" Dean mumbled, his eyes rising to gaze upon his brother there beside him, in spirit and in body, ready to help him however he'd allow.

"Maybe it would help to talk about it… your nightmare. Is it one of the recurring ones?"

"Sammy… " Dean's eyes were filled with tears, his lips trembling as he tried to form a slight smile, an effort to deny how shook he was. "I can't, Sammy… I… " Dean looked deeper into Sam's eyes and saw the worry, the pain within his brother registering through his mellow eyes so clear and his heart sank, darker and more desperate than ever before. He shuddered through the feelings, not wanting to bare his soul, yet knowing he couldn't keep on with all these secrets. They would be the end of him. He knew that. All the terrors revisiting him and threatening to bury him, taking him down for the count whenever he thought he'd moved forward, as soon as he had the audacity to believe he was free. He'd _never_ be free… not until he faced his demons… _all_ of them.

Sam spoke so soft, so gentle and kind. "Dean, I'm here… however you need me."

Dean sighed as he looked up. "I know, Sammy… I know." He took a deep breath and finally the words came.

When it was all over he couldn't even recall what he'd said, so much emotion and hurt and terror tumbling out unrestrained. He expected to see shock and disgust on Sam's face, horror at how he'd buckled from the pressure, how he'd succumbed to the terrors of Hell, but when he gazed in his brother's eyes all he saw was love and compassion.

"Sammy, I thought you were dead… " His voice cracked as he finally revealed his greatest terror. "Sammy… you were _dead_. I thought I'd _failed…_ that it was all for nothing."

"God, Dean… I'm sorry… but I'm here, Dean. I'm right here."

Dean stumbled to his feet, his legs wobbly and his vision blurred. He'd revealed so much with his candor… he couldn't hide any longer. He no longer _wanted_ to hide, tired of all the deception and lies. "Sam… I was so alone… Dad… you… _everyone_ I loved gone and it was so cold and empty there. Sometimes… "

"What, Dean?" Sam had his hand on his forearm, his grip a steady presence, no pressure just a touch signally he was there and he wasn't leaving.

Dean looked at him with eyes so broken… shattered by the forces of evil that had come to claim him, but Dean was still holding on, tenacious 'til the end, but desperate eyes now begged for comfort, whatever was allowed. Tears welled in those eyes as he confessed his last shame. "Sometimes… _sometimes,_ it was so cold and still… so quiet and I just couldn't take it any longer… Sammy… " He looked up and his eyes found his brother, forging a connection with him, all his pain and shame and love and need displayed within the sparkling orbs. "Sammy… sometimes I just needed someone to be there… _anyone_… " He stopped, hesitant to continue, the tremors rising up through his body signaling he was on the verge of collapse _or salvation_. "Sometimes… when it got to be too much… when I just couldn't be alone one more second… I begged for them to come back… " He choked out the words, broken and solemn, "Sammy… I _begged_… " Dean reached out his hand and smoothed it down the front of Sam's tee, a firm touch as he continued, "I just… oh, _god_… I just didn't want to be alone anymore. I couldn't stand to be alone one more second."

"God, Dean… I'm sorry… I am so sorry."

"Yeah… " Dean was looking away, so lost, so broken and ashamed.

"That must have been terrible… but it's understandable, y' know?" Sam tried to smile, tried to show his understanding and his love through his face, but Dean wasn't looking at him, he just kept looking at his chest, smoothing the tee in a nervous attempt to hold on and not break down. Sam pulled him forward and captured his eyes, forging that connection before bringing him into his embrace. Dean settled against him, his arms wrapping around his kid brother as his hands formed into fists, pressing against his back to draw him closer. "You did the best you could, Dean… You survived… You _survived, _Dean… You did the best you could." Sam clasped his hand onto the back of Dean's neck, holding on tight as his other hand gripped his shoulder, holding on like he'd never let go. "It was all you could do, Dean."

--

Every moment with Dean since that breakthrough night was a good moment, more time with his brother, even when the times were bad, when Dean had another nightmare or retreated back inside his head, he was still _there_ and Sam did everything he could to make the bad times slip further away and reclaim the Dean he'd always loved and admired; the Dean that was still struggling to find himself again, but Sam knew they were going to make it, that it was only a matter of time. Dean had taken the first step and he was on his way to recovery. He was much too strong to let Hell get the best of him.

_Time…_ everything still revolved around time.

Some days you'd barely know anything was wrong as they fell back into their familiar routine. Dean would joke and smile; his happiness at being with his brother again and back in the hunt capturing his emerald eyes and making them shine like a brilliant gem. His dimples defying anyone to say this wasn't a man enjoying the time he had left on this earth, living life to the fullest, savoring this second chance.

On the rare bad days that sprung up when least expected, it hurt to watch him. It was painful to see him so hesitant and scared, disappearing into his head to stave off the terrors that gripped him. Shrinking back within the fragile husk of the man he'd once been, the man he would one day again be.

Sam became acutely tuned to his moods, oftentimes flinching before Dean even reacted, anticipating what might trigger an episode. Sometimes he was totally wrong and Dean went about his business as usual, barely noticing a flub or misstep, or shaking it off with a smirk and a confident laugh, or a "C'mon, Sam, not the end of the world" comment. Other times, it came out of nowhere, some off-hand comment or look or god-knows-what that turned horribly wrong in the blink-of-an-eye, cold cocking them and propelling Dean back down that dark path.

You just never knew what might trigger a memory and ignite a painful reaction, so Sam lived on the edge… of fear, of total devastation… waiting and worrying over what the future now held for them. One battle after the next as Dean fought his way back to where he was supposed to be.

Dean seemed uneasy with the constant attention, preferring to fight his battles alone like he always had, but he allowed his brother to comfort him on occasion, knowing it was a comfort to Sam too. He could do that now, no longer determined to appear strong, now needing to _be_ strong. It was hard.., accepting he had doubts and learning to keep going in spite of them… to just keep fighting, jousting at the evil of the world and the demons in his mind, facing them head-on. Trusting in his own inherent strength and in his brother, to be there beside him through it all, knowing they were both destined for some higher purpose, that the war was still ongoing and however difficult it was, they needed to be back in the fight.

Then every so often out of the blue, Dean would reach out for a brotherly moment.

"Sammy, thanks."

"For what?"

"For coming for me… for being here now." Dean looked up and smiled, genuine, his eyes tender and soft.., _content_. "For not givin' up on me." He paused then, took a deep breath before continuing on, the slightest hitch in his voice. "I know it's not easy… I _can be_ a royal pain in the ass."

"Yeah?" Sam laughed, trying to ease the tension that always grabbed Dean when he let his tender side show.

Dean smiled again with a gentle nod of his head. "Yeah…. So thanks… Thanks for everything."

"Anytime, bro."

There was a pause while Dean waited, something wearing at him and it was obvious he needed to get it off his chest. Sam silently watched, aware of the signs and wondering what more he might need to say.

"Dean, what is it?"

"When I was lost… y' know, in _Hell…_ There were times I didn't think I'd make it." Dean chuckled, his nervous laughter something he sometimes used to hide behind for a moment when the emotions grew too powerful. He smiled, sincere and open, moving past his fear and grabbing hold of a real moment with his brother. "When I was in Hell… I only held on because of you… being there with me."

Sam spoke softly, concern laced within each word. "What do you mean, _with you?"_

"I mean, you were _there_… the kid you. The memories of us when we were kids… Hell, scenes that never even happened, but were of _us,_ somehow steadying me when I thought I couldn't go on." Dean looked straight through him with eyes clear as a mountain lake. "You pulled me through. I don't think I could have made it without you there beside me."

Sam nodded, not understanding, but grateful that somehow Dean found what he needed when he most needed it. "You're strong, Dean… you got yourself through it. Whatever you saw… it was your own mind seeing you through."

"Yeah, _maybe…_ "

Dean felt better, more in control, more connected… to his life, to Sam, to who he wanted to be.

It was a start… a hell of a good start.

He had to stay strong, keep faith that together they would conquer this, that tomorrow would come and the nightmares would eventually ease back into the darkened passageways. One day at a time. It was how he'd survived Hell; it was all he had to survive now. All he'd ever known.

--

Sam came back to the motel precisely when he said he would, the take-out bags in hand as he opened the door calling out to his brother, "Dean, food's here."

He wasn't expecting a normal response, the pre-hell ransacking of the bags and all-out gorging, but he also never expected to find Dean gone.

Life was worlds away from normal now, even their brand of normal.

After getting no response from Dean, his eyes scanned the small room and then checked the bathroom, returning to the open doorway and staring out into the parking lot and the surrounding countryside. They were on the outskirts of town and there wasn't a hell of a lot within walking distance: a mini-market attached to the office of the motel, a bar across the street, and an old country church half a mile down the road.

There was no need to panic. It wasn't like the early days, when he was gripped in fear every time Dean was out of sight. He didn't worry about Dean being taken again, that desperate irrational fear that Hell would discover its mistake and come to reclaim him; he'd accepted that Dean had come back for a reason, that he had an important job to do and they had many battles still left before them.

And he needn't worry about Dean falling apart, breaking down and collapsing, unable to face his next breath. Dean had made a real break-through, finally confronting his real fears and he was doing good now, as well as could be expected. He had his moments, but once he unloaded his doubts, he seemed lighter, more at ease with himself. Almost like he accepted his perceived weaknesses and had moved past them, finally on the road to recovery. Still, this was unexpected and with how their lives now were, Sam didn't like change, the unknown. He wanted Dean beside him, to _know_ he was safe…

He started with the closest point, the mini-mart, thinking maybe Dean had gotten his full appetite back and reignited his cravings for sweets or hydrogenated vegetables deep fried and sealed in a bag, or maybe he was in search of current reading material, as far-fetched as that seemed; then again his skin mags were getting pretty worn and due to be replaced with a current edition. Maybe he simply wanted to stretch his legs? It was so hard to predict what Dean would do these days.

Dean was tall enough he could be seen over the counters, still Sam quickly walked each aisle, just in case he was squatting down or as his irrational fears again reared their butt-ugly head and his mind took him off on unlikely tangents, _god-forbid passed out. _When nothing indicated he'd been there, he asked the desk clerk if he'd seen him. The clerk's shocked expression and reply indicated no one had triggered the bell on the door for the last two hours.

Although it would have been his first stop in the past, the bar seemed a stretch even for Dean at this stage of his recovery, but he headed there next. Dean hadn't attempted to hustle pool or poker since he'd come back, the credit cards temporarily providing them with sufficient funding until he regained his footing. The place was small and dark inside, and at one in the afternoon there were only a handful of patrons, still he asked the bartender if he'd seen him. Another vacant, incredulous look greeted him and he left with only one possible destination left. A place Dean would never normally go.

But then normal no longer existed for them, hadn't for some time.

Rather than walk the half-mile, he drove the car down and parked in the empty gravel lot. The church was surrounded by woods with an old cemetery on one side, ancient markers remembering those who had passed on eons before. The church was brick with large stained glass windows filling the entire side of the small building that faced outwards towards the two-lane road. It was quaint and comforting in its old world charm and exactly the type of place Dean would only consent to enter if necessary for a job.

The double doors to the church were solid oak and heavy as he pushed on them, immediately sensing the peace and serenity of the interior as he stepped inside. The lights were turned off, but sufficient light streamed in through a small bank of windows on the side of the forest, the filtered effect making the interior warm with natural light.

He slowly walked down the center aisle, wooden pews lined up on either side with a large wooden pulpit at the front of the church, a carving of a cross affixed to the front. Behind the pulpit were three additional stained glass panels depicting the crucifixion, the nativity with a lion and a lamb, and to the right, a striking image of the Archangel Michael, fierce with his outstretched wings and a sword in his right hand.

A lone figure was seated in the fourth pew to the right of the aisle, the head slightly bent as if in prayer. Sam silently approached, standing for a moment beside the pew before sliding in and sitting down next to his brother. Dean offered a sideways glance but remained silent, his head still bowed down staring at his hands.

His hands were folded and resting casually between his knees, slightly spread with his boots firmly planted on the floor. Sam focused on Dean's hands as they clenched and finally released, running down his jean-clad thighs and gripping his knees.

"Hey, Sammy."

"Hey… missed you. Got your favorite… extra onions." Sam forced out a smile, nervous and uncertain of what to say, never before feeling the need to force a conversation, never before so unsure of what _not_ to say.

"Sorry… just needed to stretch my legs."

"Yeah? And you ended up here?" He wanted to grill him, find out what was going on in that freaky head of his, but he was so scared to push too hard, of driving Dean away.

"Needed to think."

"Yeah? 'bout what?" And he honestly wanted to know… he _needed_ to know.

Dean's eyes rose and fixed on the stained glass image of the Archangel Michael. His voice was low and reverent, almost breathless. "Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think God saved me?"

They had never addressed the issue, even if they both had silently considered it. The retrieval ritual Sam and Bobby attempted was questionable at best and they both knew it, and on closer examination Bobby had declared they'd been missing a key ingredient after all; that there was no way it would have worked.

With few options to consider they'd run out of theories on how Dean suddenly appeared back on earth, alive and well, all outward signs of Hell erased from his body. His shredded chest again perfect, his final battle with the hellhound eradicated as if it never happened, even though they both remembered that night.

It was hard to imagine what power could bring on such a miracle, rip Dean out of the pit and deliver him back to his life. Bobby had tried to find a rational explanation, some conceivable logic that could explain how time itself could reset and breathe life back into Dean's lifeless body and set their world right again.

They were all grateful, joyous in this second chance, but the uncertainty was heavy in the air, most especially on Dean who functioned on rules, proof, a clear-cut view of the world and where his duty lay. He hated owing anyone anything; let alone being indentured to someone for his very survival, some unknown presence who sooner or later would expect payment, in some form or another.

No one receives a get-out-of-Hell-free card, certainly not a Winchester. Fate had never been kind or generous to Dean, and he saw no reason for a complete reversal now.

In their messed up family, religion had never been a source of comfort or concern. Dean always preferred what he could see to a random belief, insisting on the truth instead of vague promises. Sam had always wanted to believe, needed to have faith in a higher power, a chance for redemption, and had prayed every day; but he was never completely sure in his beliefs and after witnessing so much evil in the world his doubts had continued to haunt him, most especially once Dean was dragged down to Hell.

Dean coming back from Hell was the answer to his prayers, and he _had_ desperately prayed for that, but even he couldn't reconcile the facts.

Reverence was evident in Sam's voice, his tone reflecting wonder and a deep-seated relief while his hope continued to rise. "I don't know, Dean. What do _you_ think?"

A soft chuckle escaped his lips and he smirked, still staring at his clenched hands. "Hell, I don't know. I mean, we can't explain it, but why?" Dean looked up and his eyes were wide open, searching. His lips parted and he hesitated before the words finally came. "Why would he? Why _me?_ I mean, if he exists, and in my book that's still a mighty big if… _Why?"_

Sam locked his gaze upon his big brother, his eyes sensitive and caring, his love and admiration warming his features, caressing his words. When he finally spoke the words were simple, sincere… _heartfelt_. "Maybe 'cause you're worth it."

Eyes that still bore the weight of Hell softened, moisture glistening across the surface and Dean sighed, just a gentle release of some of the mounting pressures. His face a mask of calm, still struggling to hold in his hurts; still trying to find his way back to himself, the confident man that always bore the pain of his life and kept trudging onward, skepticism forever present and at times overwhelming any hope. "Yeah?" He shrugged his shoulders in defeat. "You're my brother. Not exactly impartial."

Sam's lips pinched and his eyes narrowed at the familiar response, Dean's typical denial of his own worth a constant battle. He took a steadying breath and fixed his gaze upon him, capturing his attention and pleading his case. "Dean, who knows you better?" With a firm tone he continued, "You _deserve_ to live, Dean. You do. You're a good man and you do important work." He quirked his brow and his lips twisted in a hesitant, hopeful grin as he asked his brother, "Is it really that hard to believe God would choose you to live? Like Roy said, God guided him to save you. You have an important job to do… and it's not done."

The memories swept over Dean and he reflected on all the thoughts again as his emotions surged. He'd never totally reconciled his feelings from that job, how he lived and Layla later died. Like her mother had asked him that day on Roy's porch the question was ever present on his mind, "Why do _you_ deserve to live?", and he'd never found an acceptable answer. The guilt and responsibility only making him more determined than ever to do some good to make up for what had happened, to justify his own survival.

And now _this_… he didn't feel worthy of this attention. Why would he deserve another miracle? He'd already cheated the reaper so many times.

All his resurrection meant was another weight had been laid upon his shoulders, adding to the burden that was already proving heavy, always pressing down upon him and threatening to break him. He didn't _ask_ for this… he certainly never expected it and now that he was back, he didn't want to owe anyone for the fact.

There was so much evil in the world, so much pain and suffering and if there was a God, then where the hell was he? Out to lunch? Shopping at the mall? What the hell was so damn important that he'd neglected the world and let all this misery exist for so long? Dean had too many questions and not near enough answers to ever fall into line with the concept of God and his mercy.

"_Dean, you need to have faith."_

He looked to his side and there she was, smiling at him, sweet and sincere, her eyes clear and bright… _alive._ As beautiful as the very first time he saw her, nothing changed since that time, aside from an even deeper sense of peace. She had always impressed him with her calm, her faith allowing her an acceptance of her fate that amazed him, how strong she was facing death, trusting in a power higher than herself. He quickly looked back to his brother and Sam was sitting beside him as before, no indication he saw anyone else in the church.

He thought back to that time. Sam's certainty… _I've been seeing a lot of things lately, Dean… and I didn't see anything._

Just like the reaper, this vision was solely for Dean, miraculously reserved just for him. _Guess I'm the one seeing things lately… things that aren't really there. _Normally that in itself would freak him out, but a part of him understood. Like Bobby had said, his mind was giving him what he needed to survive, giving him the support he craved in these trying times. Offering him comfort that otherwise would escape him.

His eyes connected with hers and she nodded. His mind reached out, hoping she could understand. _I'm sorry I couldn't save you… Roy should have saved you instead of me. If not for me…_

"_No, Dean. It happened as it was meant to. I'm at peace now, but you still have work to do… very important work. Dean… you need to forgive yourself."_

_Forgive myself? For what?_

"_For surviving."_

He felt a shudder run the length of his body, that chill from when someone walks across your grave. He struggled against it, pushing it away… _I am not dead._

_How? How can I live with what's happened… to you… _He shifted in his seat and gulped back his tears as the memories rose up, _…to me… down there._

"_Faith, Dean… you need to find your faith. In yourself… and in God."_

_I don't believe._

"_I know… but you will. You will." She was glowing, shining like an angel, the angel she would always be to him. Her voice soft and comforting, just like when she spoke to him in Hell, soothing his fears. "Dean, you need to believe."_

Before he could respond she disappeared in a soft ethereal light… filtering out into the nothingness.

"Dean, you okay?" The worry was back in Sam's voice, his eyes again studying him, trying to decipher where his head was. That far off look that sometimes seemed to overtake his brother unsettling him.

Dean doubted he was okay, a part of him honestly wondered if he'd ever be okay again; but then the main part, the part he listened to, told him to have faith… told him he would be all right again. Sam looked so hopeful, but again hesitant, unsure what his brother was going through, uncertain of how to help.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Sammy. Stop worrying."

Dean didn't want to burden him further with his own troubles, his fears and doubts. He didn't want to consider them any longer himself. He was tired of all the uncertainty. His life was so much easier back when he never questioned their purpose, dad's actions, or where his duty lay. He never wondered _why_, instead simply accepting it as the way things were, a child's response to the crazy life he was thrust into at age four, but he was no longer a child. He was a man now and he'd survived things that no man had ever before endured and he'd lived to tell the tale, at least the parts he could manage to speak of. He'd changed… _grown. God forbid… matured._

He was different now, just like Sam was different. He didn't know how or why or what was to come of it. And he sure as hell didn't expect to find or _need_ faith… aside from faith in his family and hopefully some day in himself again.

Somehow he sensed he was never going to have a definitive answer; he'd learned long ago there were some questions that simply didn't have answers. Cosmic questions of how the universe ran, why evil was allowed to exist, what had happened to the good, and whether the fight would ever be over… and the million dollar question, When all was said and done, was it even possible to win?

As he fought his way back to himself he'd assembled some important answers to a few critical questions. He now knew who he was, what he was, and where he belonged… he just didn't know how or why. Or _who_ had orchestrated the great resurrection.

Maybe some questions were never meant to be answered… maybe some were destined to linger long after all known facts were analyzed, floating forever on the wisp of the wind just beyond reach. Maybe it was simply a side effect of this job. A hard job, a tough reality, but that was their lives, where their duty lay. Maybe he just needed to have faith that it would be all right.

Sam's words echoed through his thoughts. _You have an important job to do… and it's not done._

That he could not deny, even if he wanted to. His life started down this path a long time ago, back when evil came to his home and claimed his mom. Every step had taken him further down that road, deeper into the bowels of evil until he finally descended into the pit, yet evil hadn't consumed him there. He came back… _somehow_, he survived. He was here, still breathing, still standing, and hopefully still able to bear arms against the scourge of the world.

He offered Sam his best Dean smile, open and honest and sure, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling as they gleamed with renewed focus, an intensity that revealed confidence. He _was_ the big brother, after all, and it was his job to take lead, show his kid brother the way.

"Sammy, _we_ have an important job to do."

Sam nodded, his smile the familiar kid brother smile, his faith in his brother defying all questions, offering up all the answers he'd ever need. Dean was _here_, back from the dead, standing tall beside him and together they could conquer the world. Hell, they'd already conquered Hell… how hard could the rest of the world be? His voice relayed his renewed hope, "Yeah, we do."

--

Before he left the hospital he'd insisted on returning to his room one last time. Sam and Bobby were quiet as they walked through the doorway. The unspoken question heavy in the air… _Why?_

He slowly walked to his bed, turning before it and staring into the upper most corner of the room, right below the ceiling. From his vantage point he couldn't see anything, the wall and the ceiling both appearing white. He crinkled his brow, narrowing his eyes in concentration and moved closer to the wall, each step observing the same spot, looking for something. Finally he stopped, eyes still fixed on the wall.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam had silently moved to stand beside him, his eyes focused on the same spot.

Dean shrugged his shoulders, his voice issuing a soft sigh as realization came over him, "Just a shadow."

"What, Dean?" Sam scrunched his mouth and nose in confusion, his eyes blinking several times.

"Nothing."

Dean turned back to his brother, and motioned for them to leave. Bobby and Sam were already in the hall, turning the corner and almost to the double doors while he lagged behind, still pondering the questions rattling around in his head when he heard his name, not much more than a whisper. He turned back to his room and stepped inside.

"_Dean…"_

"Mom?"

"_My handsome boy… I am so proud of you… you know that, right?"_

"Yeah, Mom… I know." He paused, overwhelmed to see her again, joyful to simply bask in her presence. Somehow he knew their time was fleeting and he didn't want to spoil the moment, but he needed to know. Out of all the questions, this one seemed insignificant, especially when considering all the other unanswered questions. He asked himself why, what difference it made now, but it didn't deter his desire. "Mom… the angels watching over me.., was that real?"

"_What do you think?"_

"I don't know."

"_I think you do… what does your heart tell you?"_

"That you believed… so I believed."

"_So, can you believe now?"_

"Mom… I was just a kid… so much has happened… _You…_ " His voice choked off, all the emotion again building.

"_I know…" _Her eyes wrapped around him, her peace shining through. _"My beautiful son. I'm sorry… but you had such joy in your heart, such wonder. Can you find that again? Can you believe?"_

Dean cleared his throat, the lump lodged there almost choking him. "Honestly… I don't know."

"_Try, Dean… just try."_

"Mom? In my room, back in Lawrence, was there really an angel on my wall?" His face was open, childlike as he waited for her response, all the emotions of that child building in his heart.

"_Of course, Dean… just like here. Angels are always watching over you."_

He looked back at the wall, just below the ceiling and there it was, the wings outstretched, the image clear and distinct. Right where he'd just looked and found a shadow. He turned back to her, more confused than ever but she was gone.

"Mom?"

"_Believe, Dean… believe."_

--

The sun was high on the horizon and there were but a few clouds in the sky. It looked to be a perfect day. A great day for a ride. Dean snapped his fingers at his brother and Sam looked up mildly surprised but pleased. Dean waited and nothing happened, so he finally spoke. "Hand 'em over, I'm driving."

The keys sailed through the air and he caught them casual with one hand, a huge grin on his face as he eased behind the wheel again. He fired up the engine and sat listening to her roar. "Oh, baby… that's my girl."

Sam grinned at the endearment, the love affair obviously not over.

"So where to?" he asked.

"Down the road, just down the road."

It was quiet between them now. No pressure to talk, to fill up the empty space with meaningless chatter; just being together, united in their journey finally enough. Dean's music underscored the connection they shared, his ease back into his life and the drive settling the tension.

"So, Sammy, how'd you know? After all that time why'd you come looking for me again?"

"Bobby didn't tell you?"

Dean blinked his eyes and shook his head, surprised that Sam would assume that. "No… no, he didn't."

"I had a dream."

Dean's voice rose in concern. "One of your freaky visions?" Dean gave him _that_ look, the one that made Sam uneasy like he was a freak or something.

Sam tensed from the implication, before relaxing, determined to not make Dean's concern something it wasn't. He knew Dean was only protective of him, wanting the best and worried about evil stalking him. He _knew_ that.

"No… Don't think so."

"You don't _think?"_

Sam half-laughed. He nervously wrung his hands and averted his eyes before turning and facing Dean straight-on. "The demon visions are gone, Dean… this was different. This was some sort of a connection to _you._"

"To me?" he incredulously asked with a sideways glance.

"I just knew you were in trouble… I saw you, Dean. I _felt_ what you were feeling."

Dean looked away for a second before he turned back with such concern and worry on his face, his eyes taking on a softer focus and his brows crinkling over them. His mouth twisted like he'd just taken a straight shot of cod-liver oil, his voice whisper soft as he spoke, "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Sam asked, his brows narrowing over concerned eyes.

"'Cause that couldn't have been any fun." Dean offered a slight gasp and a nervous twitch of his mouth, chewing on his bottom lip. "What exactly did you see… and _feel?"_

"Your panic, how _alone_ you felt… I felt how much you needed me." Sam paused, his eyes beginning to again mist. "Dean, I'm sorry we didn't get there sooner."

"Sammy, you came. She said you would and you did. That's all that matters."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Who _was_ she? The voice that I… _you_ heard?"

"You heard her?" Dean asked in wonder.

"Yeah… so soft and sweet. I felt how it calmed you. Was she with you all the time? Y' know, when they were… "

"No." Dean tensed as a memory shot through him, his chest tightening as his gut clenched, his hands wrapping around the steering wheel even tighter. He breathed steady, focusing on her… finding the strength to settle the horror that gripped him. He breathed out, steady, calm… slowly composing himself until he could continue. "Not all the time, but enough. She came when I really needed her."

"So, who was she?"

Dean looked at him with a warm gaze, his eyes reflecting his surprise that Sam didn't know, hadn't recognized her voice, but then Sam was still a baby when she died. He smiled, warm and gentle and totally relaxed as he answered, "Mom."

"What?" Sam gasped.

"It was Mom." He broadened his smile, his eyes shining with all the love he'd always held for her, wanting to share this part of his memories, wanting his brother to know her love… feel it like he had.

"But Missouri said she was destroyed by that poltergeist."

"I know… but she was with me, Sam. I don't know how… but when I needed her, _really needed her_… " His voice broke, overcome with emotion. "She never let me down."

"Dean, you _really_ think it was Mom with you in Hell?"

"I don't know, Sammy, but it sure sounded like her and… "

"What, Dean?"

"She touched me, Sam, and it was… " He swallowed and blinked back the tears, tears of love and joy… and _hope_. "It felt like the hand of God or something.., but it was her fingers, her touch. I don't know how or why or if it was real or just in my head, but it got me through." He gazed upon his brother and tried to connect to him, convey how it felt, what it meant. "Sam, there were times when I knew I wasn't gonna make it. I couldn't go on one more minute, let alone months, and yet I did. Every time I got close to giving up, I'd hear her voice… or _yours_."

"Mine?" he softly whispered, awe and worry evident in his tone.

"Yeah, you were there too. A lot of the times it was the child you. Holding me up, helping me hang on. Your smile, Sammy, and how you looked at me… like I couldn't fail, like I was a superhero or somethin'." Dean gave a slight nod, a casual response but his eyes betrayed the real meaning, the true value of having his family by his side. "It got me through."

"I wish I'da been there for real, Dean. I just wish we'd gotten there sooner."

"Don't you beat yourself up over this. You're here now, that's all that matters. You saved me, Sammy… You saved me."

"God, Dean, it's good to have you back."

Dean offered a real smile, his eyes glittering as the fine lines framed them, his dimples proof positive he was a happy man. "It's good to be back."

TBC

_"Faith consists in being vitally concerned with that ultimate reality to which I give the symbolical name of God. Whoever reflects earnestly on the meaning of life is on the verge of an act of faith."_ – Paul Tillich


	20. I Fight Therefore I am

_Well, this is it… the final chapter. I hope you enjoy. Thanks for coming along for my version of Hell and how Dean survived. Sorry this took so long to post, I was laid up on bed rest with an infected dog bite for the past week. Just goes to show… don't adopt a stray pit bull and name her Bela. Only bad things can come from it. LOL Onward to the story!_

---

"_Man is asked to make of himself what he is supposed to become to fulfill his destiny."_ – Paul Tillich

Chapter Twenty – I Fight Therefore I am

I love the feel of the open road, my baby opened up, the roar of her engine, the scenery whipping by, the feeling that I'm heading _towards_ something. I never think about what I'm leaving behind in my rearview. It's the way I was raised, all I've ever known… don't put down roots, don't get too close to people, keep moving, keep _fighting_. Always another job further down the road, some evil bastard asking to be wasted and I've always been happy to oblige.

I'll admit it, it gets hard sometimes. Every once in a while you just get tired of all the running… the constant motion. Sometimes I even think about what it would be like to settle down… have that home Dad wanted for me. The thoughts don't last long; they can't, not with the lives we lead. We have a job to do… an _important_ job.

It needs doing, even when it gets tough… most _especially_ when it gets tough. When everyone else wants to cut and run, hide out from the danger, that's when my family steps forward, up to the plate to face down the evil of the world.

Dad taught us well. For years I never even questioned it. Sammy did, but then he's always been more independent. Me… I always focused on keeping my family together. That was my job, and if it meant chasing Dad across the country while he tracked down some demon or other supernatural slug; well, that's what my wheels were made for… the open road.

Life's been tough, but no one said it was supposed to be easy… especially if your last name is Winchester. But together we hung in there, killed a lot of evil sonsuvbitches along the way too, and I know we made a difference… gave some kid back their mom… let some dad raise his children in a world less scary, gave those evil monsters running rampant out there a reason to fear the dark, a reason to fear _me_.

All the people Sammy and I saved, all the ones Dad saved… they're _alive_ because of us. Damn if that don't feel good… _real good_.

It helps, makes up for all the bad times… and god, what bad times we've had over the years. The last few years it seemed to escalate: Dad picking up the trail of that yellow-eyed bastard, Sammy losing Jessica, finding out that damn demon was targeting our family, worrying that he might succeed in pulling Sam over to the darkside. It was hard, _damn hard_. At times I thought I'd crack under all the pressure, especially when Dad died… died to save _me_.

That's a heavy burden to live with, having someone not only die, but surrender their soul to eternal damnation simply because they love you and think you're worth it. And then I went and did the same damn thing to Sam. I never meant to hurt him. I'd _never_ hurt Sammy, I only needed him to live. I just couldn't live with him dead. I just couldn't do it.

He _had_ to live… simple as that. I couldn't fail him, not like that. A man does what he has to do… what his duty is.

When the moment came, when faced with the decision, I never even hesitated. I knew what the price was and I didn't care. It was worth it. I would _never _shirk my responsibility. I had never failed in a job once I took it on, and I wasn't about to start then. Sammy was mine to keep safe since that night Dad put him in my arms. I couldn't fail him. I just _couldn't_… not when I knew how to set things right.

I had never felt as much terror as I felt that night in Cold Oak when he collapsed in my arms, his eyes losing focus and his blood staining my hand red. My heart literally broke and when his heart stopped beating, mine did too, frozen in my grief, unable to exist within that pain. Every silent command Dad ever gave me was screaming in my head; every promise I'd ever made to Mom and myself, that Sammy would have it better than I did, that I'd keep him safe… that I'd _save_ him was pounding out through my heart. _That's_ what kept my heart beating, nothin' else. That night was the worst nightmare I'd ever before imagined…

I couldn't live with him dead… I just couldn't do it.

So I did what I had to do and I'll never apologize for it. Nothing to apologize _for_… I did my job.

But what came _after_… and I swear… I would never choose to change my actions, _ever_… 'cause Sammy lived. That's what mattered… I _saved_ him. But what came after… when my bill came due… when the hellhound came for me and I actually faced the full cost… I never imagined the terror of that moment. I never felt as hopeless and scared and sorry as when I looked into Sam's pleading eyes and told him he had to let me go.

And I _know_ what that did to him. I remember the pain of losing Dad. I know how hard it is to let go, but Sammy's strong. He's always been the strong one.

I was so proud of him, _so very proud_, and I hope he understood that in all the craziness of that night. My last words were meant to help him, as much as they possibly could. To help him focus on what was still left to be done… to keep fighting, to remember what Dad taught him, to remember what I taught him… and to just remember how much I loved him.

I know it's selfish, but I just wanted someone to remember me, to somehow be kept alive in his heart and not totally disappear. I just wanted my life to _mean something._ Sammy was alive. I saved him, and through him I'd matter. Hell, it's more than most men get after a lifetime of living.

But I still had to face Hell. _Hell_… God, you cannot imagine what that means.

Even now I can't face what that meant… my mind can't, so it takes me to other places, other times, gives me a respite from the reality…

The sun is beating down on the blacktop and you can see the heat rising up, the mirage of water across the roadway shimmering like an oasis beckoning in the dark. Zeppelin is playing on the radio, _Whole Lotta Love_ rocking out of the speakers and it's a good day. A real good day.

My foot is heavy on the accelerator. I feel the need for speed and my baby doesn't disappoint. I'm leaning back in the driver's seat, plenty of room to sprawl out, my left knee casually pressed against the door panel while my fingers tap out the beat of the bass on the steering wheel. I can't contain myself and I scream out the lyrics, the music infectious as the beat drives me onward.

"You're in a good mood," Shotgun says with a smile on his face, a glimmer of joy again present in his brooding eyes.

"Why wouldn't I be? Got my car, a case… life is lookin' good."

A deep laugh greets my enthusiasm. "You're easy to please."

"Damn straight."

"Well, we've got a couple of Chupacabra to hunt down, think you can find time for that?"

I offer him my most cocky grin. "I got nothin' but time… So… what's the lore? How we waste 'em?"

"Silver bullet. Straight to the heart."

We exchange smiles, an ease and familiarity making conversation unnecessary. He turns back to his research, his specialty; that's why I do most of the driving, one of my specialties. The man knows how to pick out a pattern, track down a lead, plot out a hunt. Me… I'll be ready for the fight when the time comes, best in the family at weapons and hand-to-hand, although none of us Winchesters are lacking in that department.

I love to drive. The open road gives me time to think… or _not think,_ which more and more seems to be what I look forward to now. Just empting my mind of all the questions still rattling around in my screwed up head and simply driving. _Forward motion…_ places to go, evil to hunt, a reason for the pain and a chance to exorcise it by doing some good in the world.

I don't dwell on the cost of the job, never have. I just do it. Simple and clear cut… There's evil out there, no question about that. Said evil deserves to die, no debate here. Most of the innocents of the world haven't got a clue, but I do, so that elects me for the job. It's what I do and I'm good at it… a natural, with the added benefit of years of training.

Everything is as it should be until the radio cuts out, static replacing the music and the dash lights start to flicker. Thunder cracks like a whip in the distance making the car shake while lightning strikes across the road before us lighting up the night sky. The rain hits with a burst of fury, pounding down on the black metal of my baby and swallowing us in the onslaught, soaking the windshield with such force the wipers can't keep up. Instinctively my foot eases off the gas, checking my mirrors for signs, omens of what's approaching.

Shotgun shifts in his seat, his voice calming when he senses my panic.

"Hold on, Dean… "

My voice is barely there as I whisper, so damned scared and I hate myself for falling apart so easily. "They're coming… _for me_."

"We don't know that."

But I do, I've always known… It was just a matter of time until they found me again and pulled me back down into the pit where I belong. Where I deserve to be… I sold my soul. I freely surrendered to evil and I've earned what they are so willing to give me. It doesn't matter why I did it; all they care about is they own me.

"Dean, you keep fighting, _you hear me_?"

I've never disobeyed an order, _ever_… but I am so freaking scared and I've never doubted myself more than I do right now. I can't deny what's in my gut so I let it all hang out, "I can't… I'm not that strong."

And I hope I'm wrong, I really do. I only want to warrant the faith my dad's always had in me. I hope I can find the tempered steel my mom told me existed buried somewhere deep inside, but I can't find it… it's lost in all the doubt and confusion that's already weaving its way through my mind and I'm shaking… I am so fucking terrified.

My eyes start to close, clamoring for the safety of denial and that is freakin' dangerous. Seventy miles an hour down a twisting two-lane blacktop in the middle of the perfect demonic storm and I want to close my eyes and ignore what might be out there. I steel my resolve and open them and the sun is shining and the rain has cleared and there's a rainbow up ahead.

I blink in disbelief because there is no way a storm of that magnitude just vanishes. No freakin' way! My companion beside me smiles, such warmth in those dimples, such love beaming at me from his expressive eyes, deep lines crinkling out from the corners.

"It's gonna be all right, Dean. Trust me. You're strong… you've always been strong." Then he gives me that smile that tells me I'm everything he ever thought I could be, and he always had such high standards. "You're gonna make it."

I don't want to confess, I don't want to admit any weakness… especially not to this man. I've only ever wanted to be strong for him, be who he wanted me to be, the man he saw when he placed his faith in me. Somehow the tears start, emotional tears that overcome me with everything they represent. How scared I still feel, how relieved I am to have him back by my side, how terrified I am that I won't stay _me…_ that somehow the fires will rise up and consume me and I'll just burn away… ash drifting across a barren road.

I barely get the words out, my voice unfamiliar to my ears, "How do you know?"

"Know what?"

I take a deep breath, so many terrors hammering in my chest, threatening to burst forth and reveal my weakness, my heart constricting from the fear. "That I won't break?" I blink back my tears. I feel my lips trembling as my jaw twitches, trying to stave off the truth, hold on to the façade for his sake… and mine. "Why do you say I'm strong, when I don't know how much I can take?" I expose myself with that one line. One final crushing admission, no longer willing to hide from him, tired of the pretense, finally revealing my deepest, darkest fear. "Every man has his breaking point… how will I know where mine is?"

"Dean, yours will always be one step beyond where they take you."

I don't know whether to feel relieved or scared, thankful or worried. I've already been taken so far; farther than I ever imagined I could go. How much further could there possibly be? I look in his eyes and I find my strength. All the years of trying to please him and he is willingly giving me everything I ever asked for, his faith and trust, his confidence that I am capable and good. The slight nod of his head and the pride his eyes reveal giving me hope that I can keep going. Then he gives me his final blessing as he again hands over my brother to me… a gift… a treasure to always hold dear.

"You take care of Sammy… and son, you let him take care of you. It's time."

The road stretches on before me and the blacktop is a straight line cutting through the countryside. A rainbow hovers off to the side and it feels so familiar, like the sun welcoming me to another day… a better day than yesterday.

I settle in for the drive, my baby purring beneath me, the road smooth beneath her wheels. My dad turns back to his paperwork, his journal in his lap and he opens it up to write.

I relax for a moment, the tension that's been coiled in my gut finally releasing and I start to hum along to the radio. AC/DC taking me down the _Highway to Hell_ and I don't cringe at the lyrics, instead I feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins like a stimulant fueling my passion for the hunt, giving me a reason to keep moving forward.

I glance in the rearview and my heart stops, the flames behind me engulfing the road we just travelled and propelling me back toward panic. My fingers tense on the steering wheel and my entire body shudders through the terror.

My voice barely releases the thought, every effort made to control how freaked out I truly am.

"Dad?"

He looks up and I can tell his mind is still on the job, always focused on his research and what needs to be done. His eyebrows arch quizzically and he waits for me to continue.

"Dad… behind us… What do I do?"

He glances in the side mirror at the flames spreading across the road, fanning out into the countryside like a wildfire out of control, leaving a smoldering pile of ash in its wake as it consumes everything along its path. He never wavers, as cool and calm as the superhero dad he's always been as his raspy voice offers his final words of wisdom. "Just keep driving, Dean. Don't be scared. Just keep driving and don't ever look back."

I turn my focus toward the road before me, easing off the gas when it turns winding and treacherous. Up ahead the road disappears around a bend; I steady my course and head into it, accelerating through the curve, navigating it with ease and when I look in the rearview the countryside has changed again, blacktop and green grass now, a mountain towering majestically over the scenery. My heart settles and I softly repeat, "Just keep driving and don't ever look back."

"Dean? DEAN!?!"

The panic is now in my brother's voice as he shakes my shoulders. It takes a moment for me to adjust to where I am, what's happening. The scratchy motel comforter brushes against my arm as I raise my hand to my eyes to wipe the sleep from them. His eyes are wide-open and concerned, sensitive and acutely tuned to me like never before, almost as if he senses the memories plotting their attack and he is there to touch my arm to ground me in reality, or offer a word of support to stem the tide and keep me with him on this side of the divide.

"What?"

"You were dreaming… " He stammers like it's painful to even say the words, knowing the truth is they are most often nightmares, but his eyes display all his love and concern and that's what matters. "You mentioned fire… I just… "

He doesn't have to say more. We both know what fire means to me now. How I trembled the first time I lit a match, shaking until the damn thing flickered out. How afterwards I viewed it as a test, a challenge, to see how steady I could hold the match as the flame danced, reflecting every horror from the pit within my eyes.

Over time I became perversely fascinated by fire, how it moved, how it consumed everything in its path, burning the corpse to ash in its grave when we embarked on our first simple hunt after I came back. I learned to handle the match in my hand because I controlled it. I brought it to life and with a quick breath I could snuff it out.

If you are to survive in this life you have to respect that which threatens to destroy you. You learn to control your terror, channel it into the courage to face off against your enemies. It takes time, and patience and determination. I decided I wasn't going to hide from my fears; I wasn't going to let them defeat me. Slowly I drew each one out and confronted it. Sometimes I shook so badly I thought I might crumble to the ground, but I never did. Somehow I learned to face my deepest, darkest fears and triumph.

Still… fire was the one thing that still got me on occasion. Still made me shudder when it surprised me and Sam knew it.

"Sammy… I'm all right… _really_." I offer him my most sincere smile. No longer hiding behind my repertoire of cocky grins and fake bravado, digging deep and finding the real courage I'd always hoped I possessed. It feels good to be honest with Sam and know that if it gets to be too much and I need to hide behind him, he is one humongous guy and more than able to shield me for the time I need to pull it back together.

I think we make a damn fine team. He watches my back and I've got his. We still have a ways to go, working it all out, but we're gonna get there.

"I just heard you say fire… I was worried, dude."

He's so anxious, still trying to figure out how far I'll let him in, how much help I'll accept. I smile again, clasping my hand to his forearm in a firm grip to let him know I really am okay. "It was a dream, but it's over. I didn't let it win."

"Good… that's real good, Dean."

With a smile that expresses all his love and belief in me he goes back to his own bed and I hear his shallow breathing even out, but I know he's still awake, still listening for more signs of distress from my bed, ever vigilant to watch over me like I've done for him all these years. I'm still not used to it, but I think I like it. I'll always be the big brother, no demon or evil will ever take that away from me. I'll always look after Sammy, that's my job, but I let him do the same for me now and it helps. It eases the burden. It's the least a big brother can do, show his little brother the ropes… how to protect his family.

I don't fall back to sleep for a long time. It's not that I'm afraid to close my eyes, it's more I have too much to think about and the dream just brings it all to the forefront. There's a tension in me, always is now, just this side of panic, controlled but laying heavy in my gut making it flutter in apprehension, a dread of what's coming. It's nothing new, even though it seems worse now. It's what I grew up with since I was a kid, after Mom died in the fire, when I wasn't sure if my family was going to make it.

We did then, and we will now.

My mind is constantly in motion now, trying to figure out what happened to me. Trying to make sense of it all, and I'm not sure there is any sense to be made; but I do know I am here for a reason. I was brought back for a purpose and I need to hang tough until it all plays out.

I'm glad the nightmares of down there don't come as often. They still cause me to clench in terror when they do and for days after I'm on edge again, waiting for them to dissipate. I know I'm not alone. I hear my mom's voice when I'm awake and my dad's when I sleep, and I have Sammy by my side in this fight. And I can always count on Bobby, no matter what I might need. My family's always with me, helping me stay strong.

But I'll never forget what happened to me. _Ever…_

People talk about torture. What it is, what it would feel like to be a victim of it, but until you are _there…_ experiencing it, it's just words. Words can't possibly describe what it feels like.

There are terms that come close. Flay, peal the skin from your bones, dissolve your body with acid, burnt black. Those descriptions offer images that take you down the right path toward what Hell truly is; but until you are there, until you yourself feel the torment these sonsuvbitches have in store for a hunter who sent so many of their kind back to Hell, there is no imagery that comes even remotely close.

What they did to my body is one thing… what happened to my mind is something else entirely. I _can't_… well, I wouldn't wish that on anyone… _anyone._

I was there. I experienced it and I can't even describe it. My mind can't process it, too horrific to hold on to. And I thank God every day for that. 'Cause if I could remember.., if I could describe what it was like… then I know I would never be free of it. I'd never be able to put those thoughts to rest. It truly would drive me insane.

As it is, I remember what my mind forces me to not forget. It's taken time. It's mainly feelings that haunt my consciousness. At first it was flashes, distant nightmares, cold-sweat shakes that devoured my days and nights, a creepy-crawly, never-ending dread of closing my eyes and the visions that would come and run rampant in my head.

It was never feeling safe and fearing it would never end, that I would never be right again.

What I do remember, what I can bear to see of it, still makes my blood run cold. Still makes my head ache and my body throb from the intense agony. Still pricks my eyes with tears that burn like acid down my face. The sense-memory taking me right back down that road.

True blood-curdling terror. Unfathomable, unless you've lived it.

Skin pulled taut until it's stretched so thin you could see through it if you held it up to the light. And light is not a problem. Not there. There is eternal light from the fires, the hot, burning flames of Hell. And if the pressure isn't enough, then the heat will manage to melt away any humanity you might try to hold on to.

As your skin pulls tight against your bones, it's as if your bones are honed razor-sharp, ready to start at one small point and rip the flesh from your frame. Tearing open the shell of your body and exposing all your insides to the outside. The blood and guts exploding out all around you and not only do you feel it, but you hear it and see it and even taste it… and there you are… all across the universe open and exposed and bloody. So goddamn bloody.

But you don't pass out, you don't become overcome by the pain and check yourself out. You are there in the moment for the entire time, waiting and watching and _feeling_.

Now I know what they mean when they say the word 'surreal'. And it lasts for days, weeks, months, however long they desire… and they are sick bastards.

You'd never believe how much blood fills a man until you see it all out there on display. I've seen a lot of blood in my time, just another part of the job… but never anything close to this. I'd never before heard the blood pumping out of my body, never seen it bursting forth from my chest like a fountain, never felt it dripping to the floor to pool all about me.

And that wasn't the worst.

I'd never seen terror consume a face like the panic that gripped Sam's when the hellhound ripped me to shreds before him. That lone image forever burnt into my consciousness, never releasing me, holding tight for all eternity. Knowing I caused him that pain… the last thing I ever wanted to do, hurt Sammy.

And my last thought of my brother was panic that Lilith was killing him.

_White._

White light… surrounding him and the last gasp on my breath before Hell dragged me down into the pit was for my brother… _for Sam_.

You are _not_ going to die too, Sammy. If I have to die, then at least you'll be safe.

You can keep fighting. Remember what Dad taught you; remember what I taught you…

And remember _me_.

I'll live through you, Sammy. Don't die. You can't die.

You just can't.

_Please don't die._

But he did.

I knew it. I saw it.

And it was all my fault…

In those final moments I knew it was all for nothing.

'Cause I saw everything.

Even then I denied it… hell, that _is_ what I do.

Please, God, don't let my brother die.

But that was it… my true hell.., not knowing, fearing the worst. Knowing I'd failed… that Sammy was dead.

And then there was Hell… the _reality of Hell_. Worse than your worst nightmare.

Born of every terror you could imagine and a thousand fold more horrific.

Humans have no real concept of true agony.

I'd never before screamed out in a desperate plea to pass out and been denied.

I'd never before begged to die, crying inconsolably when the answer came back, "No".

I'd never before felt myself slipping away, and I never _ever_ believed I wouldn't care…

I was a fighter… always had been.

I didn't know anything else.

I never thought I'd give up and not care.

But I didn't.

I was beaten… _defeated_…

For the first time in my life I gave up.

I surrendered to the inevitable.

And I am so sorry.

I am so sorry I wasn't stronger…

I think I held on for a long time.

I can't remember, but I think so…

_I hope so._

But until you've been there at the edge and felt that pain.

Until you've faced the fires of Hell and the torment within.

You can't imagine what it is like.

How you reach a point where nothing else matters except ending it…

I don't know how, but somehow I survived.

Somehow I came back from it, but I've changed.

My brother looks at me now with pity and I hate it. I freaking _hate _it.

He tries to comfort me and ease my suffering, but he can't.

No one can.

I'm damaged.

Twisted.

Bent.

But I don't think I'm broken.., not totally.

I pray a small piece of me exists somewhere.

Buried deep, maybe in that secret room that's always locked up tight.

I don't know how I came back. Or why.

If God did do this then all that leaves are more questions.

Why? Why _me? _Why in the hell would God give a crap about me?

I don't know _how_ I escaped Hell.

And I sure as hell can't foresee what's to come.

I don't know how or when, but I hope I can find my way back to me.

I know I'll never be exactly the same, but I look in Sam's eyes and I want to be who he needs. Who he thought he brought back. Me… the old me. The man I used to be.

He took a huge risk. He did an amazing thing in bringing me back.

Now I need to meet him halfway… or at least go as far as I can towards him and hope he can pull me the rest of the way through.

We've come this far.

I can't stop now.

We're Winchesters…

I am no longer nothing.

I have a name now.

I'm not just a thing howling in a white room begging to die.

I'm a man, and I'm alive, and I survived Hell.

_I.. survived.. Hell…_

_Dean…_

I am Dean, and someday I'll be that man again.

I'll be the brother and the son.

The fighter and the protector.

The hunter.

Heaven help the evil that crosses my path when that day comes.

'Cause I'm comin' back and I'm gonna kick their evil butts all the way to Hell and beyond.

The End

bjxmas

October, 2008

All standard disclaimers apply.

Paul Johannes Tillich (1886-1965) was a renowned 20th century theologian and philosopher in the existential realm. His ashes are interred in New Harmony, Indiana.

Interesting coincidence…_ or not?_

Existentialism: A philosophy that emphasizes the uniqueness and isolation of the individual experience in a hostile or indifferent universe, regards human existence as unexplainable, and stresses freedom of choice and responsibility for the consequences of one's acts.

"_He who risks and fails can be forgiven. He who never risks and never fails is a failure in his whole being." – Paul Tillich_

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_Well, that's it, guys. So what did you think? Reviews are love and Dean and I… we could use some good lovin' about now._

_In addition to what you thought of the story as a whole, I would love to hear what you thought of this last chapter. I am as proud of this chapter as anything I have ever written. And I totally have Dean and Jensen to thank for that. Some chapters are agonizing to write. This one simply flowed from his consciousness… or at least that's how it felt. I do love having that man inside my head! _

_Special thanks again to my dear friend and supporter, Swan. Every step of the way she is encouraging, helping me keep the psychological truths in place and pushing me to take chances with my writing. Every writer needs support and Swan has been there through all the self-doubts and second guessing._

_Thanks to all the awesome reviewers who stood by me on this story. Every single review is treasured. I will respond as usual to all reviews on this chapter. _

_Thanks for reading. Until next time, take care, B.J._


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